


The Walls of Kaer Morhen

by king_finn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sharing a Bed, Sleep Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:09:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27595294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: "Still, there’s something that makes him feel at ease- welcomed, even, as if the very walls of Kaer Morhen are opening their arms, inviting him inside. You’re safe now, little one, it seems to say."Finally, after years of asking, Geralt brings Jaskier to Kaer Morhen. The keep is beautiful, filled to the brim with fascinating stories and gorgeous little secret spots - so much so that Jaskier sometimes finds himself wishing he might never leave at all.Though, he soon comes to find out that no one ever truly leaves the walls of Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 98
Kudos: 410





	1. Birth

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I was just thinking about how Kaer Morhen would be haunted as fuck, given how many people died there. And so I wrote this fic.  
> Really, things are a lot deeper than just that, but I don't wanna spoil it for you guys. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

_Home._

It’s the first word that flits across Jaskier’s mind, as he looks up at the imposing, grey walls of Kaer Morhen, its countless windows looking down on him.

He doesn’t know why his subconscious decided to use that word – after all, he’s never been here before. He’s not even sure if he’s _supposed_ to be here. The keep was built for Witchers, after all, and he’s certainly not one of them.

Still, there’s something that makes him feel at ease- welcomed, even, as if the very walls of Kaer Morhen are opening their arms, inviting him inside. _You’re safe now, little one,_ it seems to say.

_Home._

He’s home.

A light touch at his shoulder startles him out of his reverie, and he looks at Geralt, who’s staring at him, brow tight with worry. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier nods, feeling his lips fold into a smile, as he looks back at the keep, the unease of the past few days falling off his shoulders. “I am now.”

The journey up hadn’t been easy, the path leading to Kaer Morhen rough and dangerous, the cold creeping into his skin on the second day and settling there, making him feel like he’d never be warm again, wolves howling in the distance only adding to his discomfort.

And along the way, there had been _something_ there _._ Something cruel and unkind hovering around him with every step he took, keeping him up at night, urging him to go down the mountain again and never return. It had made its home in his bones, draining him of joy and light, until he felt like he couldn’t bear it anymore, a scream bubbling at the back of his throat every waking second.

But he’s here now. And that’s all that matters.

He hoists his pack higher up his shoulder, his stiff fingers clasping at the leather. “Let’s head inside, shall we?”

“You go ahead,” Geralt says, “I’ll put Roach in the stables, first.”

He nods, and starts walking again, the numbness in his toes making him slightly off-balance, his steps uneven like a drunk, as he makes his way to the tall, oak doors of the keep. He pushes one open slightly, shoulders and calves burning with the exertion, and he slips over the threshold.

_Home._

He pushes the door closed behind him, taking a look around as he does so. The entrance hall is large, with long, wooden tables pushed against the grey walls, blocking several unlit hearths – Jaskier doesn’t need to take a closer look to see that no one’s lit a fire in those in a long time. There are a few doors in the far wall, one of which is open, warm light shining through, distant voices reaching him.

As he crosses the hall, he spots a few tapestries, though he can’t really see what they depict, the shadows too deep to distinguish the colours. He vows to himself to take some time this winter to look at them.

He’s finally reached the doorway, and the voices fall quiet as he approaches. _Damn Witcher senses._ Three pairs of amber eyes are trained on him the second he steps inside what turns out to be a kitchen – a lit hearth in the wall opposite him, wooden countertops stretching out to his left, an occupied table in the middle.

He waves awkwardly. “Hello. Looks like Geralt and I are the last to arrive, then.”

Lambert pulls his eyebrows up, giving him a half-grin. “So it would seem. Geralt’s not this late, usually, but I suppose travelling with a human will slow you down.”

“Don’t be rude. He’s our guest,” Vesemir chastises him, before approaching Jaskier, extending his hand. Jaskier takes it, shaking it once before letting go. “Vesemir. Nice to meet you.”

“Jaskier, and the pleasure’s all mine. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I assume you’ve met the others already?”

Jaskier nods, shooting Eskel and Lambert a quick glance. “Yes, we’ve met a few times on the Path.”

Vesemir seems satisfied with that, and motions at the table. “Come, sit down, have something to eat. Warm yourself up, too, lad. You’re freezing.”

Jaskier can’t say no to that, and he sits down next to Eskel, taking the bowl of stew Vesemir hands him gratefully, feeling the warmth seep into his numb fingers. “So, when’d you guys get here?”

Eskel shrugs, accepting his own bowl of stew from Vesemir. “Two days ago. You’re not that late, little bard, don’t worry.”

“And you?” he asks Lambert, who’s already wolfing down his own portion, stopping momentarily to answer with his mouth full, something that elicits an annoyed sigh from Vesemir.

“Yesterday.”

“Hmm. Eskel’s right, little bard,” Vesemir says, as he sits down at the head of the table, and Jaskier briefly wonders why everyone here seems to insist on calling him ‘ _little bard’_ – not that he minds terribly much, it’s just curious. “You’re not that late. It’s still about a week until the first snow.”

A door slams in the main hall, Geralt appearing in the kitchen doorway a minute later, tugging his gloves off and discarding them against the wall with the rest of their bags. “Thought I smelled a few Drowners in here,” he says, grinning as his brothers stand up to greet him, each giving him a tight hug.

“Fuck you too, Geralt,” Lambert says eloquently, and Eskel rolls his eyes, as the three of them sit down at the table, Geralt taking the chair next to Lambert, opposite Jaskier, accepting a bowl of stew from Vesemir.

They fall into easy chatter and banter after that, as the light starts to fade outside the tall windows, night falling over the keep. Jaskier can’t help but notice that the door behind him to the main hall is still open, the darkness that lies beyond making the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, as if someone’s staring at him. He’s never been very keen on the dark.

If Eskel notices him shifting a little bit closer, he’s chivalrous enough not to mention it.

Eventually, Vesemir clears the bowls from the table, as Geralt reaches into his pocket for his Gwent deck, Lambert disappearing into the pantry for a few bottles of White Gull.

Jaskier can’t help but frown. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks Vesemir, who smiles at him.

“Don’t worry, little bard, I already ate before you arrived.”

Lambert closes the door to the main hall on his way out of the pantry, and something eases up in Jaskier’s chest.

The rest of the evening passes quietly and companionably, with the Witchers swapping stories from the Path, Jaskier occasionally correcting Geralt when he leaves out a particularly embarrassing detail (“ _You know, he fell flat on his arse in the mud fighting that griffin. Had to walk through the town to collect his payment with a muddy backside.” “Jaskier, shut up.”)_ and Geralt correcting him in return when he gets a little too dramatic with the details ( _“Can you please stop talking about how my hair glistened in the sunlight.” “But Geralt, it’s important that they get the full picture!”)._

But eventually, the night comes to an end, and before soon, Jaskier’s yawning, limbs growing loose and heavy with fatigue.

Geralt chuckles softly, standing up from the table, the rest following his lead. “I think it’s time to get the little bard to bed.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Stop calling me ‘little bard’. I’m as tall as you lot.”

“He’s got a point there,” Eskel mutters, and Jaskier smiles at him.

Vesemir clears his throat. “I’ve prepared a room for you next to Geralt’s,” he says.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing. Now, off to bed, you lot.”

\---

The room is small but cosy, a double bed against the wall opposite the door, a lit hearth and a chair in the corner to his right, and a wardrobe and a desk to his left.

He sighs, dropping his bags on the desk, setting his lute down gently against it. He’ll unpack tomorrow, he’s too tired now.

He undresses down to his smallclothes, quickly washing himself with water from the basin in one of the corners, before crawling under the thick blankets. The fire hasn’t died out yet, and he knows the embers will keep going long enough to last until morning, but still, he can already feel the chill creeping into the room, the wind howling against the stone walls outside the windows.

But it’s warm and cosy under the blankets, weighing his already heavy limbs down even more, pushing him into the soft mattress. He’s comfortable and tired, and he closes his eyes, expecting sleep to take him within minutes.

Except it doesn’t.

An hour later, he’s still awake, frowning up at the barely-lit ceiling, his body refusing to succumb to the haze that already occupies his mind. Though that isn’t anything unusual.

No matter how much he tries to refuse it, the years are catching up to him, old age slowly creeping into his skin. He’s already having trouble walking for days on end, his knees already cracking and aching whenever he has to climb a hill, his knuckles already growing a bit painful when there’s a storm coming in. He’s not the same young man he used to be, even if he still desperately tries to be.

He supposes that’s the reason he was so adamant about coming to Kaer Morhen with Geralt this year. The path up is harsh and demanding, and who knows if he’ll be able to take it next year? Who knows when he can no longer keep up with his Witcher?

Geralt can see it, too, he knows – taking breaks more frequently, steering clear of the mountain ranges to the south, quietly giving him a numbing cream when there’s a storm brewing on the horizon. His Witcher can see the years finally setting in. Maybe that’s why he let Jaskier come along to Kaer Morhen, this year, after refusing him for decades.

Hell, Jaskier can feel the effects of age, even now, as he lies in a comfortable, soft bed. His knees hurt from the journey up, his skin feels thin and dry from the winter air, and his lungs have trouble sucking in enough air.

But so be it. He will take this one winter to explore the vast halls of Kaer Morhen, to collect the stories that reside within these walls and pour them into songs, to find out what this keep has to offer and drink it in like a man dying of thirst.

He will take this one winter, before age finally takes him.

\---

He wakes up in the morning when someone knocks at the door. “Jaskier?” he hears Geralt’s voice through the wood. “It’s nearly time for breakfast.”

“Yeah, be there in a minute,” he slurs into his pillow, though he knows Geralt can hear him perfectly fine. Footsteps retract from the door and continue down the hall.

He sighs, pushing himself up and out of bed, shivering when his skin meets the cold air of the room. He quickly washes himself with the water from the basin and hastily dresses in his warmest clothing – though it still isn’t really enough to keep the chill at bay, so he puts a few logs on the embers of the fire, pushing it back to life.

He slips out of the door, shivering when the heat of the hearth leaves his skin, quickly making his way to the kitchen.

Or, at least, he tries to.

He doesn’t really remember which turns Geralt took last night when he led him to his bedroom – it was dark and Jaskier was tired – so it’s no surprise that not before long, he realizes that he should’ve reached the main hall a while ago.

He frowns, turning in circles, taking in the unfamiliar hallway. It looks the same as all the other ones, with high windows that let in plenty of sunshine, cobwebs in the corners, and the occasional door or tapestry breaking the monotony of the grey walls.

He walks to one of the windows, looking outside. He can see a pine forest in the distance, a little ways down the mountainside, the walls of Kaer Morhen stretched out to his left and right. There’s a tower to his left, though, and he figures that, if he can make it up there, he can see where he is more clearly.

So, he starts walking again, further into the keep, his soft footsteps echoing through the cold halls around him.

He stops dead in his tracks when he hears… well, something. He cocks his head, holding his breath as he concentrates.

There it is again, and this time he recognizes it as the rhythmic drag of a whetstone against a blade. He frowns, following the sound to one of the many doors, and he pauses with his hand on the cold, metal knob, listening as whoever is inside continues sharpening the weapon.

He lifts his hand, knocking once, twice, before twisting the door open.

Clouds of dust billow up from the floor by the movement, and he waves his hand around to chase it away, before he really looks at the room that lies beyond.

It’s simple and square, windowless and filled to the brim with racks full of swords, crossbows, daggers, and arrows, though all of them seem to have something wrong with them: knicks taken out of the blades, the point bent this way or that, scratches on the once-shiny metal.

A room full of faulty weaponry.

There’s a thick layer of dust on every surface, cobwebs filling the corners and the spaces between different racks and weapons, the metal dull and rusted in some places.

No one’s been here for a long time.

He frowns, closing the door again. He could’ve sworn he heard someone sharpening a weapon in there, but he supposes it must’ve been just his imagination, or he must’ve misheard it – after all, the wind is still howling outside the keep. Maybe he just heard something on the wind, and his mind just assumed.

He shrugs, setting out again towards the tower he saw earlier.

Eventually, he reaches the end of the hallway, a door right in front of him, another hallway stretching out to his left, and he supposes this must be it – this must be where he can find the tower.

The hallway around him is in a worse shape than the rest of the keep. There’s a thin layer of dust coating the floor and windowsills, a few of the glass panes smashed out, letting in the cold mountain air, making him shiver. The door to the tower is covered in scratches, as if someone’s tried to get in using their sword, and pieces of the stones surrounding it are chipped off, scars marring the smooth surface.

The hallway to his left is empty, shadows shrouding the far end of it in darkness, the stones more worn and scratched up there, too.

Jaskier shrugs, and turns back to the door, reaching his hand out to the knob, ready to twist it open and climb the stairs to the top of the tower.

“Ah! There you are, little bard.”

He startles at the voice, and retracts his hand, looking to his left as Vesemir walks towards him briskly.

“We were worried when you didn’t make it to breakfast.” His large hand lands on Jaskier’s shoulder, a warm and reassuring weight.

He blushes and shrugs. “Ah, well, I sort of got lost, you see.” He nods at the door. “Figured finding higher ground might be my best option.”

Vesemir hums thoughtfully, eyeing the door. “I found you just in time, then.” He turns Jaskier toward himself, both his hands ending up on the bard’s shoulders. “Listen to me, Jaskier. Do not go into the west tower. It’s crumbling apart and highly unstable, it will cost you your life if you go in there.”

He nods. “I understand. I’m sorry I almost did.”

Vesemir smiles, steering him away from the door, leading him back the way he came with a hand between his shoulder blades. “It’s alright, lad, you didn’t know. Just be careful next time, alright?”

\---

That afternoon, he finds himself wandering the halls of Kaer Morhen once again, though this time he’s in the east wing, the part of the keep that is used more often and better kept.

Geralt and his brothers are outside, unloading the cart full of supplies Lambert brought from the village below. Jaskier had offered to help, but Geralt had adamantly refused, saying he would just freeze his delicate, human fingers off. They both know it’s because Jaskier’s joints can’t stand the cold, not anymore.

So, he wanders, smiling when he eventually hears the sound of swords clashing coming from the courtyard, the Witchers probably training out there now that they still can – it won’t be long until the first snow starts falling.

He finds the library, eventually, and his mouth falls open in a small gasp.

It’s huge. Rows upon rows of tall bookshelves filled to the brim with neatly organized books, some shelves holding little plaques with their contents – _bestiaries, maps, third century history, fourth century history, fifth century history, romance novels –_ some filled with miscellaneous books that have no place anywhere else – moon phases, anatomy, candle making and so on and so forth. At the end of every row there’s a comfortable reading chair and a small table with an oil lamp, extra chairs and tables cramped in random corners.

There’s one table, close to the entrance of the library, that holds a few books, and Jaskier supposes that must be Vesemir’s reading chair.

He picks out his own chair somewhere in the middle of the library, and dedicates himself to the difficult task of choosing which books to read first.

After a few hours perusing the overflowing shelves, he’s picked out about ten books. He puts nine of them on the small table next to the reading chair, the last one on the windowsill closest to the door, so he can take it back to his room in the evening.

For now, he settles into the comfortable chair, a book with Elvish poetry in his lap, and starts reading

\---

“Figured I’d find you here.”

He startles, eyes tearing away from the book to find Eskel at the end of the aisle, leaning against a shelf, arms crossed in front of his chest as he smiles at Jaskier.

It’s quite dark, already, and Jaskier frowns. He hadn’t realized hours upon hours had passed, the sun going down behind the mountains.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Eskel says, still smiling, “but dinner is almost ready. Can you find your way back to the kitchen?”

He clears his throat, raw from disuse. “Right, thank you. And yes, I think I can- it’s just down the stairs to the left, right?”

Eskel nods. “It is. If you get lost again, though, just shout a bit and we’ll come find you.”

He chuckles a bit. “Right, will do, thank you.”

Eskel nods at him one last time, and Jaskier puts a bookmark he found under one of the shelves into the book, the last lines of the poem he was reading still echoing through his mind.

_We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,  
Along the passages they come and go,  
Impalpable impressions on the air,  
A sense of something moving to and fro._

He sighs, laying the book on the table next to him, stretching his arms above him and turning his head, feeling his shoulders and neck pop satisfyingly. He shouldn’t really sit so still for so long – he used to be able to do that, back in Oxenfurt, when he was younger: sit still for hours on end, bent over numerous books as the afternoon passed by. But now, he can no longer do that.

He’ll start rusting if he sits still for too long, one of these days.

He gets up, stretching his back as he walks to the library door. He stops at the last windowsill to get the book he put there earlier to take back to his room, only to find the stone ledge empty.

He frowns, shaking his head. He’d been so sure he put the book _right there._ But he must’ve been mistaken. He probably just forgot.

So, he walks back to his reading chair, flipping through the pile of books on the table, only to find that it isn’t there, either.

_Strange._ He doesn’t know where it is, now, so he returns to the romance novel shelf to pick out a new book to read instead, his fingers bumping along the old spines as he considers each title carefully, trying to pick the one that entices him most.

And there it is, right where he found it, the first time he perused these shelves: the book he put on the windowsill.

He frowns again. _Strange, indeed,_ he thinks to himself, as he takes it off the shelf again, turning it in his hands as if the answer to this whole ordeal can be found on its fabric-bound cover.

He shrugs, though, making his way out of the library again. Maybe Eskel just saw it on the windowsill and put it back where it belonged, thinking Jaskier left it there on accident, or something. Yes, that must be it – after all, Jaskier can be a bit… scattered sometimes, but he’s still absolutely sure he put that book on the last windowsill before the library door.

It doesn’t matter. He found it, in the end.

\---

Jaskier wakes up in the middle of the night, unable to move.

He frowns at the ceiling, at first, trying in vain to wiggle his fingers and toes, panicking slightly when he finds he can’t, his already malfunctioning lungs constricting in his chest even more, breath coming out in short pants.

He closes his eyes again, taking a few deep breaths – to the best of his ability – to calm himself down, telling himself that it’s nothing, and that it’ll be fine. He’s heard of this phenomenon before from Essi. She told him a few times back in Oxenfurt that she would sometimes wake up unable to control her muscles, and that she would regain control after a few minutes. It’s not uncommon. He’ll be fine.

He sighs deeply, relief flooding him as he moves his fingers a bit, though it still takes a lot of trouble, and his left arm doesn’t really seem to cooperate as well as the right.

He’s not sure if he can move his toes, though, so he opens his eyes, looking at the foot of the bed.

There’s someone sitting in the chair in the corner of the room.

Jaskier’s eyes widen, breath speeding up as panic and fear course through his veins, coiling in his chest. He stares at the looming shadow in the chair, unable to move, still, as the man shifts, standing up and taking a slow step towards the bed, right hand coming up to clutch at the bedpost, left arm… completely gone.

The fire in the hearth has completely died out, so Jaskier can’t see the man’s features, but the moonlight shining through the curtains is enough for him to see the silhouette of the man as he slowly moves from the foot of Jaskier’s bed to the side of it. And all the while, Jaskier still can’t move his arms or legs- can’t even open his fucking mouth to tell the man to go away or to ask him who he is and what he’s doing here.

The man is right next to him, and Jaskier’s chest contracts as he sobs, trying in vain to get away as the man’s right arm- his _only_ arm stretches out towards Jaskier.

He takes a deep breath, and, with his jaw still clamped shut, he _screams._

The door to the room slams open, Geralt’s familiar shape visible against the moonlight streaming in from the hall. “Jaskier! Jaskier, what’s going on?”

He sobs in relief, eyes flitting from his Witcher, rushing to his side, to the suddenly empty spot where the man was just seconds before, trying to explain through his teeth, only succeeding in making a bunch of panicked little noises.

Geralt lights the fire again with a quick _Igni,_ before sitting down on the side of his bed, taking Jaskier’s hand in both of his. “Hey, what’s going on? What happened?”

He sobs again, eyes glued to Geralt’s face, his fingers twitching pitifully in Geralt’s grip.

Geralt frowns at him, then at Jaskier’s hand, and he seems to realize. “Can you move?”

_No,_ Jaskier tries to say, _I can’t and there was a one-armed man in my room and I’m scared, Geralt._ But his tongue won’t cooperate, and all he manages to produce is a few fearful whimpers.

Geralt shushes him, brushing his hair out of his face, the palm of his hand a comforting weight against Jaskier’s cheek. “It’s alright, Jask. You’re just having sleep paralysis, it’s going to be alright.”

He tries to nod, his head moving up and down jerkily once, as Geralt wipes the tears streaming from his eyes away, murmuring softly, telling him everything’s going to be alright, as Jaskier slowly but surely regains control of his limbs.

“There was a man,” is the first thing he slurs the second he can move his tongue again, heavy hand lifting off the sheets slightly to point towards the other side of the bed. “Right there. I swear there was a man, Geralt-“

“I… I didn’t see anyone,” Geralt tells him, and fresh tears flood Jaskier’s eyes.

“I swear! He was right there, I swear I saw someone-“

“I believe you,” Geralt says, voice soothing and calm, as he wipes the tears from Jaskier’s cheeks again. “I believe you. It’s not uncommon with sleep paralysis to see frightening things. Your dreams were just… spilling over. Nothing can hurt you here.”

Jaskier takes a shaky breath, nodding once, as the panic finally starts to subside. He pushes himself up on shaky arms, slumping forward when he’s finally upright.

“Can-“ he starts, licking his dry lips. “Can I sleep with you tonight? I just… I don’t think I’ll be able to close my eyes in this room.”

Geralt nods, standing up from the bed. “Sure.”

“Hold on,” Jaskier mutters, wiggling his still slightly-numb toes. “I need a few minutes to get my legs working, I think.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums thoughtfully, before bending down and scooping Jaskier out of bed, one arm behind his back, the other under his knees. Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to protest, and simply lays his head against Geralt’s shoulder, shivering slightly as he gets carried into the cold hall.

He looks around Geralt’s room as the Witcher kicks the door shut behind him. It’s the same as Jaskier’s room, though it looks a lot more lived in – a few books on the small desk, an extra pile of blankets on top of the wardrobe, a row of small, wooden animal statues on the nightstand.

Geralt notices him staring as he deposits Jaskier on the bed gently, and shrugs. “Lambert likes to whittle wood sometimes.”

“They’re good.”

Geralt chuckles softly, settling into the bed next to Jaskier, and Jaskier uses his remaining strength to turn onto his side, burying his face into Geralt’s shoulder.

“Don’t tell him that,” Geralt mutters, “it’ll go to his head. He’ll be even more insufferable.”

He giggles, relaxing into the mattress as Geralt gets his arm around his shoulders and pulls him closer. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he whispers.

“Hmm. Go to sleep.”

“Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight, Jask.”

He feels fatigue pulling at his limbs, and he prepares himself to stay awake for another half hour, as usual. But, peculiarly, he slips into sleep easily this time. Whether it’s because he feels safer in Geralt’s arms, because it’s the middle of the night, or because he feels like he can breathe freely, he doesn’t know.

Either way, he could get used to this.


	2. Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have anything to say here. If you like this fic, be sure to also check out Follow the Strange Trails and All You Have Is Your Fire, i guess. Also this one is turning out a bit longer than I as expecting lmao.
> 
> Anyways, as always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

“What happened to the west wing?” he asks at dinner, a few days later. He’s roamed in there once or twice over the past week, and every time, he couldn’t help but notice the dilapidated state of it – the stones of the walls chipped and scarred, the windows broken in several places, some doors even shattered to bits – right before Vesemir had found him and shepherded him out of it soon afterwards.

Vesemir always finds him, somehow.

The dinner table grows silent, and Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he asked the wrong question.

“The sacking,” Geralt replies eventually. “I’ve told you about that before.”

He frowns, then nods. He remembers it well, the night Geralt told him what happened to most of the Kaer Morhen Witchers: killed- _slaughtered_ by an angry mob in their own home, their blood painting the walls of Kaer Morhen. He remembers the way Geralt’s face had seemed to age a lifetime in the light of the dying fire, and he remembers holding him close afterwards, trying in vain to sooth the greatest loss Geralt’s ever had to endure.

“Right,” he says. “You did tell me about that, about what happened and…” his eyes drift to Vesemir, who’s also fallen quiet, staring daggers into his untouched plate of food “and that Vesemir was the only one to survive.”

The kitchen is quiet, the silence almost palpable.

“Aren’t you going to ask, little bard?” Lambert eventually says, venom in his voice, and the tension in the room sets Jaskier’s nerves on end. “Aren’t you going to ask _how_ he managed to survive? You’re smart, surely you’ve realized how odd it is that an entire keep of Witchers couldn’t make it, but _somehow_ , he could.”

Jaskier clears his throat, looking down at his lap. “It’s uh… it’s really none of my business-“

“Tell him, _Vesemir,_ ” Lambert spits out, “tell the little bard how you _ran_ while the others were being slaughtered, tell him how hid like a fucking coward until you were the only one left standing.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “ _Tell him!”_ he barks out.

“That’s enough!” Eskel snaps, and Jaskier looks up to see that he’s bared his teeth in a snarl at Lambert, who’s growling back. Geralt has his jaws clamped together, his hands fists on the table as he glares at Lambert.

Vesemir stands up. “Excuse me,” he mutters, walking out of the kitchen.

Jaskier curses, scrambling out of his chair, following Vesemir into the main hall, intent on apologizing to him for the scene he caused – no matter how much he didn’t intend to. But when he steps foot into the hall and looks around, Vesemir is nowhere to be found.

\---

He pushes open the door, sneezing when it sends a small cloud of dust into the air, waving his free hand in front of his face, his other occupied with the blanket and the book.

He’s decided to explore the keep, finding different reading nooks in different rooms. After all, he doesn’t want to spend the entire winter cooped up in the library – hell, if he wanted that, he would’ve just gone to Oxenfurt.

And maybe it has something to do with that one time he was walking through the library, and out of the corner, he’d spotted someone sitting in one of the chairs at the end of the aisle. He’d stopped in his tracks, taking a few steps back, only to find the chair very much empty.

Or maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with that. Maybe he’s just getting tired of the library. It doesn’t matter.

He looks around the room. At first glance, it doesn’t seem like much, with a few beds pushed against the walls and a curtain at the far end, but Jaskier knows not to judge too quickly, by now, and closes the door behind him, walking towards the curtain.

He lays down his blanket and book on the floor next to one of the beds, and pushes the fabric to the side, grinning when he finds an alcove with a bench behind it. It’s the perfect little reading nook, and Jaskier can already picture himself lounging there in the winter sun, surrounded by pillows, his book in his lap as he dozes.

He turns back to fetch his things, but finds his blanket gone.

He frowns. _Strange._ He walks over to the side of the cot where he left his stuff, lowering himself on his knees next to it.

He finds the blanket underneath the bed, and he frowns again, reaching under to pull it towards him. He must’ve accidentally kicked it when he walked towards the alcove, he supposes. It’s now covered in dust, though, which is less than ideal but it’s nothing a good shake can’t fix.

So, he shakes it out and folds it again, laying it next to the book once more before walking out of the room in search of pillows, smiling to himself as he hears the familiar clanging of swords in the courtyard.

His quest is forgotten, though, as he walks into the main hall, finding Eskel standing there, staring at one of the tapestries. Jaskier goes to stand next to him, taking in the scene stitched on the black fabric in vibrant thread.

It’s a Witcher fighting a wraith, his hand on the ground as a purple circle glows around the monster.

“The first _Yrden_ ,” Eskel explains to him.

Jaskier hums thoughtfully, eyes trailing over the details in the tapestry as he waits for Eskel to speak again.

“You know,” the Witcher eventually mutters, “I used to be able to sit here for hours as a kid, watching the older Witchers work on these tapestries. It was mesmerizing.”

“I bet,” Jaskier mumbles back.

They stand there in silence for a while, until Jaskier moves on to the other tapestries – the next few ones depicting the birth of every sign.

He startles when the front door slams open, Lambert grinning wildly as he walks inside, pausing momentarily to stomp the snow off his boots. “First snow’s here!” he announces cheerily and, quite frankly, a bit unnecessarily.

“Does that mean you can’t train outside anymore?” Jaskier asks, and Lambert shakes his head, grinning, still.

“No! As a matter of fact, it’s now that we _start_ training! Nothing’s better than watching Geralt slip in the snow, I’ll tell you that.”

“Actually, there’s nothing better than putting snow in the back of your shirt,” Geralt retorts as he also walks into the hall, pushing the front door shut behind him.

“That’s just cheating.”

“Hmm. I don’t think it is,” Eskel replies in Geralt’s stead, following Lambert to the kitchen as they continue to bicker.

Geralt chuckles softly, walking over to Jaskier, standing beside him as they look at the first _Quen,_ the Witcher on it fighting off a griffin _._ “How are you doing?” he asks.

Jaskier smiles softly. “I’m doing wonderfully.” He feels Geralt hesitate and turns his head to look at him. “What is it, dear heart?”

“Do, uhm… do you like it? Here, I mean. Kaer Morhen. Because I know you haven’t been sleeping well, and… if you want to leave… I understand. We still can; the snow isn’t too thick yet-“

“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts his ramblings, brushing the back of their hands together for just a second, ignoring the sparks that dance across his skin as he does so. “I love it here. The keep is beautiful and your family is delightful and… I really do love it here.” He chuckles softly, turning back to the tapestry. “Gods, sometimes I find myself wishing I might never leave this place.”

He looks at Geralt again, meeting soft amber eyes and slightly upturned lips. “You know,” he says, voice low, “my teachers used to say that no one ever truly leaves the walls of Kaer Morhen, as long as it’s their home.”

“That’s endearing.”

Geralt snorts. “It’s ominous, is what it is.” He jerks his head towards the kitchen door, Eskel and Lambert’s voices drifting towards them. “Come on, it’s nearly time for dinner.”

\---

He wakes up in the middle of the night, unable to move.

His breath immediately speeds up and he squeezes his eyes shut, fear coursing through his veins as he desperately tries to lift his hands, wiggle his toes. A part of him urges him to open his eyes, to assess the situation, but a larger part of him screams not to, because he might see the one-armed man again – though reasonably, he knows that if the man is there, it doesn’t really matter if Jaskier refuses to look at him or not.

The chair in the corner creaks. Jaskier sobs.

Wheezy breathing joins his own gasping and shaking one, footsteps slowly falling on the floor, making their way to the side of Jaskier’s bed.

He sobs again, chest convulsing as tears run down his cheeks, pathetic little whimpers escaping his throat as fear takes a hold of him.

“Shh.” He sobs again, louder this time, as he hears the one-armed man right next to him. “It’s alright, little bard.” The voice is reedy and soft, words barely understandable.

He whimpers, desperately gulping in stuttering breath after stuttering breath, his throat seizing up, blind fear making him unable to even scream.

“I won’t hurt you, little bard,” the reedy voice next to him says. “It’s just been a while since I saw a new face. Especially one as pretty as yours.”

Sword-calloused fingers slide across his cheek, wiping his tears away.

Jaskier screams.

The door slams open but Jaskier keeps his eyes squeezed shut, even as he hears quick footsteps padding towards his bed, even as he feels Geralt’s arms pull his upper body up, into the Witcher’s chest.

“Hey,” Geralt whispers to him, “hey, it’s alright, Jask, it’s alright, I’m here.”

He sobs, still, bitter tears of pure, unadulterated fear streaming down his cheeks, the memories of the hand on his skin too fresh to ignore.

Geralt continues to hold him like that, one hand rubbing soothing circles into his back, the other holding him close as Jaskier cries, his arms and legs useless and limp.

“Did you see the man again?” Geralt asks eventually, and Jaskier manages to shake his head.

“I-“ he slurs, tongue heavy and loose in his mouth “-heard him. Felt him.”

He can practically hear the frown in Geralt’s voice. “Felt him?”

“Touched me.”

The hand on his back stills momentarily, before it continues its soothing circles. “It’s alright, Jask. I’m here, now. No one can hurt you.”

“Can… can I…” he swallows around his thick tongue “sleep with… you?”

He feels Geralt nod against the top of his head, before he shifts, picking Jaskier up the way he did last time. Jaskier lets his head lol against Geralt’s shoulder, able to peek over it as the Witcher carries him out of his room.

Right before they turn the corner, Jaskier spots the black silhouette of a large man with only one arm next to his bed, amber eyes catching the moonlight falling in through the windows.

He doesn’t have enough energy to scream.

\---

“Whose room am I sleeping in?” he asks over breakfast, the next day.

Vesemir frowns, staring off in the distance, lost in thought. “Hmm. Suppose that was Wulgrim of Rosberg’s room.”

Lambert snickers into his porridge. “Wheezy Wulgrim,” he mutters, eliciting a chuckle from both Eskel and Geralt.

Jaskier frowns. “Wheezy Wulgrim?”

Vesemir nods solemnly, stirring his still uneaten bowl of porridge. “He had an… unfortunate encounter with a griffin. The beast managed to take his entire left arm and lung. He survived, but he could never walk the Path again.”

Lambert snorts. “Gods, I remember him parading around Kaer Morhen all day, pointing at everything and everyone with his one arm, commanding us around. ‘ _Go clean the kitchen’,”_ he imitates in a familiar, reedy voice that makes the hairs at the back of Jaskier’s neck stand up, “ _’stop playing around and do something useful’.”_

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, brow furrowed with worry. “Are you alright?”

He nods quickly, swallowing back the porridge that’s threatening to rise again. “I’m fine. Excuse me for a moment.”

He stands up abruptly, practically fleeing from the kitchen, into the main hall. He takes random doors and turns until his lungs are burning in his chest, until his knees are cracking painfully, and he takes one last door, slamming it shut behind him.

He’s back at the room he found yesterday, the windows of the alcove showing the beautiful sight of the mountains in the distance, his book still on the ground next to the cot. He walks towards it, bending over to pick it up, pulling his blanket from under the bed, shaking the dust off and folding it, putting it down again.

He turns, walking to the alcove, kneeling on the wooden bench in front of him, taking in the sight of the pale, blue sky and the snowy mountaintops littered with pine forests. It’s definitely a sight he could get used to, and it helps calm his frayed nerves after what happened last night, even though it is a bit chilly in here.

He sighs, turning back around to fetch his book and blanket, mentally preparing himself for an afternoon of relaxing and forgetting all about _goddamn wheezy Wulgrim and his missing fucking arm._

Only to freeze when he sees a small hand peeking out from under the cot, dragging the blanket underneath it slowly.

Jaskier’s breath catches in his lungs, before speeding up to small gasps, eyes widening as his heartbeat thunders in his ears, fear coursing through his veins as his hands clamp around the edge of the bench, nails digging into the wood, arms trembling.

And he watches. Watches as that little hand drags the blanket underneath the cot, watches as it disappears into the shadows, watches as… nothing happens after that.

His muscles unfreeze, as if a spell’s suddenly been broken, and he staggers to the cot on shaky legs, knees cracking painfully as he lets himself drop. He braces one trembling hand on the mattress, the other digging into his thigh as slowly – ever so slowly – he lowers his head down to look under the bed.

There’s nothing there. Nothing but the crumpled blanket and flakes of dust.

With a shaking hand, he reaches under the cot, retrieving the blanket and standing up again. He barely manages to shake the dust off the blanket, fold it loosely and drop it back down on the floor next to his book, his movements jerky and forced.

And then, he takes a step back. And another. And another. Until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bench and he sits down heavily, pulling his feet up to hug his legs to his chest.

He sits there. And waits.

Seconds turn into minutes and still, nothing happens, nothing moving in the room besides Jaskier’s chest and the flakes of dust floating through the air lazily.

He’s about to give up, about to shrug it off as a figment of his overworked imagination, about to walk away and pretend he didn’t see anything, when something moves in the shadows under the cot.

He watches, once again, as a child’s hand emerges from the shadows, grabbing the blanket in a tiny fist and dragging it under the bed slowly.

He swallows thickly. “It’s-“ he begins, his voice weak and wavering, and he wets his lips, trying again: “It’s not nice to take things that aren’t yours.”

The hand lets go of the blanket, slowly retracting under the bed. Suddenly Jaskier feels a bit guilty. After all, the child – because it definitely is a child – is just taking the blanket when they think he’s not looking, nothing more. They’re probably just cold.

He knows there’s two ways he can go from here: he can take the blanket and his book and walk out of this room, never to return, or…

Or he can stay and see what happens.

He makes a decision right there and then.

He sighs deeply, trying to push the fear out of his lungs. “It’s alright, though. Just this once. You can have the blanket.”

He waits, again, and for several long minutes, nothing happens.

He sighs again, pushing himself up and turning around, settling on his knees on the wooden bench, looking out of the window at the beautiful sight without really seeing anything.

“I’m not looking,” he calls over his shoulder. “If that’s what you’re scared of. I’m not looking.”

He waits again, the clock in his head ticking steadily as the minutes pass, his feet slowly growing numb from his own weight.

And then, he hears it: the soft slide of fabric on the stones, dragging through the dust. He takes a few deep, calming breaths, willing himself not to panic, pushing the fear that’s threatening to consume him down. And he waits.

The soft rustling of the blanket, and his heartbeat picks up.

Tiny, little footsteps on the stone floor, and his breath stutters in his lungs.

The very vague shape of someone standing behind him appearing in the glass of the window in front of him, and his eyes widen.

His hands are trembling where they’re lying on his thighs and ever so slowly, he starts turning his head, giving the person behind him plenty of opportunity to flee or disappear or – and he really doesn’t want to think about that – attack him.

But they don’t. They stand there as he slowly turns his head to look over his shoulder, heart racing in his throat.

It’s a child. Jaskier slowly turns around completely to look at them properly, to make sure he doesn’t startle the little kid.

He can’t be older than four – if that, even – his black curls framing his round face adorably, shoulders hunched up to his ears as he looks at Jaskier with big, brown eyes, the dusty blanket pulled around him like a shield.

“Hi,” he says softly, making sure not to scare the boy. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Hi,” the boy whispers, and Jaskier has to resist the urge not to coo at him, fear-frozen heart melting at the sight of the child.

“What’s your name?”

“Elias.”

“Nice to meet you, Elias.”

“Are you a mage?”

He cocks his head, curiosity stirring in him. “No, I’m not. I’m a bard.”

“What’s a bard?” Elias asks in that adorable little voice of his, brown eyes looking at Jaskier with curiosity.

He smiles softly. “I make music. I have a lute in my room- that’s an instrument. If you want I can bring it here, later, and show it to you.”

Elias nods eagerly, greedily, brown eyes wide as if he’s drinking up every bit of kindness Jaskier has to offer. “I’m going to be a Witcher,” he offers shyly.

“Oh, I bet you are,” Jaskier says, “you look like you’re strong enough to be one already.” It makes Elias giggle, and Jaskier has to resist the urge to gather him in his arms and protect him from all the evil in the world.

But he can’t help but wonder what the boy is doing here. Did he sneak inside when the Witchers weren’t looking? How’d he even make his way up the mountain? And how has he been surviving? Surely someone would notice food going missing, right?

He shakes the questions away. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that he’s got a little boy right in front of him, all alone in a near-abandoned wing of a dilapidated keep.

“Elias?” he asks. “Are you hungry? I can get some food for you if you want.”

The boy shakes his head, curls bouncing around his face as he rubs his eyes with one tiny fist, yawning widely. “No,” he mutters eventually. “I’m tired, mister Jaskier.”

He smiles softly, fondness spreading in his chest, warm and fuzzy, and he lowers himself to the ground, stretching out his arms. Elias takes his silent invitation, crawling into his lap, burying his chubby face in Jaskier’s shoulder, thumb making its way to his mouth.

“Let’s get you to bed, shall we?” Jaskier mutters as he stands again, carrying the toddler to the cot he’d been hiding under, gently lowering him down on the mattress.

He tugs at the blanket a bit, rearranging it so the boy’s tucked in, nice and snug under the soft fabric, blinking up at Jaskier sleepily.

“Goodnight, my little Elias,” he whispers, tucking a few wayward curls behind the boy’s ear.

“Goodnight, mister Jaskier,” little Elias mumbles around his thumb, brown eyes drifting closed, slipping into sleep.

Jaskier can’t help but smile at the sight, and takes a few steps back, lowering himself on the wooden bench, eyes trained on the strange little boy in that old bed, sleeping peacefully in the near-abandoned Witcher keep. Gods, how he wonders what brought this little child all the way up here, what horrors he was fleeing from that caused him to take the dangerous passes up to the keep, hiding and fending for himself like no child should have to.

Jaskier sighs, leaning his head against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest.

He’ll let the boy sleep, for now, and in a few hours, he’ll try to convince him to have something to eat in the kitchen. He’ll prepare a room for him, somewhere warm and safe where he doesn’t have to sleep in a dusty, cold room with an even dustier borrowed blanket. He’ll protect the little one against all the evil in the world – with his life, if he has to – to make sure he’ll never have to face what drove him here in the first place again.

Yes. He’ll do that, and so much more, for his little Elias.

He doesn’t notice that his eyes are starting to drift shut.

\---

He wakes up with a start a few hours later, disoriented and confused, and he rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he looks around the room.

Right, yes, now he remembers: the room filled with cots and with a lovely reading nook, his blanket dusty as it kept getting dragged under the bed by a little hand-

_Elias._

He sits up straight, sleep completely chased away, and notices the dusty blanket in a heap on the cot Elias was asleep on. The boy is nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier curses silently, sliding off the bench, crawling to the bed on his knees, peeking underneath it, finding only dust and cobwebs. “Elias?”

He looks under the other beds as well, and when he doesn’t find the boy there, he starts pushing open the chests at the foot of each cot, heart racing in his throat the longer he goes without a sign of the boy.

“Elias?” he calls frantically. “Elias? It’s alright, you can come out, now, no one’s going to hurt you. Elias!”

The door swings open and he looks up, equal parts startled as hopeful, sagging a bit when he sees Geralt.

“You missed dinner,” Geralt says in lieu of greeting.

Jaskier huffs, letting the lid of the chest he was looking into drop back down. “Yeah, well, as you can see, I’m a bit busy.”

“I was worr- What are you doing?” Geralt asks, as Jaskier drops down to his hands and knees, looking under the cots again.

“Well, my dear Witcher,” he mutters, “you’ve got an unexpected visitor.” He sits up straight when the silence continues for a few seconds, finding Geralt frowning at him, still in the doorway. “A little boy,” he explains, “can’t be more than five, goes by the name of Elias. He was here earlier, but now he’s gone.”

Geralt blinks, shaking his head minutely. “A… a little boy?”

He huffs impatiently, pushing himself to his feet and walking to the door briskly. “Yes, and he’s out there on his own, and we need to find him.”

But before he can push his way past Geralt, into the hall, the Witcher’s strong hand wraps around his arm, keeping him in place. “Jaskier…”

“What?”

“We would’ve… noticed. If there was someone else in the keep.”

He clenches his jaws together, rolling his eyes. “Well, yes, I suppose, but he was _right there!”_ He points to the dusty blanket, lying on the cot in a heap. “I tucked him in!”

“Jaskier…” Geralt says again, something sad and resigned in his voice, and Jaskier’s eyebrows knit together, tears springing to his eyes.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he whispers, voice breaking slightly, “don’t you fucking dare tell me that that little boy I saw- _held in my arms,_ wasn’t real. Don’t you fucking dare tell me I’m crazy.”

Geralt’s hand tenses slightly around his arm, thumb rubbing soft lines into his doublet. “I believe you. I believe you, Jaskier, I really do…”

“This is the part where you say ‘but’, isn’t it?”

“But…” Jaskier’s chest cracks open like a rotten egg, tears spilling down his cheeks, and Geralt sighs. “I… It’s…”

He shakes his head, taking a step back, trying in vain to tear his arm from Geralt’s grip. “Just… save it, Geralt. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Do you know what I smell, right now?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier frowns at him, shaking his head. “I smell you and Kaer Morhen. I smell lemon and ginger, and I smell stone and dust and leather.”

“Where are you going with this, Geralt?”

“Every human has their own, unique scent that lingers in a room days after they’ve been there.” He pauses, staring at Jaskier intently. “I smell no one in this room but you.”

He clamps his jaw shut again, looking away as tears start to spill over once more, sliding down his cheeks in fat droplets, chest aching _aching aching_ and his mind suddenly scattered as he feels his reality come crumbling down around him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says softly, reassuringly, the sound of it only making Jaskier hurt more, “I believe you. When you say that you saw a boy and held him in your arms, I _believe you._ But…”

“He was never really there,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m losing my mind, aren’t I?”

Geralt sighs, pulling him closer, and Jaskier buries his face in the Witcher’s chest, trying in vain to keep his sobs in.

“You’re not,” Geralt whispers. “You’re just… you’re just tired, probably. You haven’t been sleeping well.”

_We both know that’s a load of horseshit,_ he wants to say, but he nods against Geralt’s chest instead. “Yeah,” he mutters, “it’s probably that.”

Geralt sighs again. “How about we get you some dinner, and get you to bed. Get you a good night’s rest.”

He shakes his head. “I’m… I’m not hungry. Just…” _scattered_ “tired.”

“Alright,” Geralt says, pushing him away slightly to turn him towards the door, gently laying his arm around his shoulder, leading him into the hallway. “Then we’ll just get you to bed. Alright?”

“Hmm,” he agrees, feet dragging a bit as he walks. As they pass one of the dark windows, he hears the familiar clanging of swords in the courtyard. “Geralt?” he asks. “Lambert and Eskel are in the kitchen, aren’t they?”

Geralt frowns at him but nods. “Yeah, they are. Why?”

“No reason.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan!


	3. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

Geralt’s staring at him.

He sighs, stirring his long-cold porridge listlessly, annoyance growing with each passing second.

“Is there something wrong, Geralt?” he asks eventually, pulling his eyebrows up at the Witcher.

Geralt seems to startle, as if he hadn’t known he’d been staring, submerged too deeply in his own thoughts to notice. “No, no… it’s just… uh… I was hoping I could show you the greenhouse, this afternoon. I think you’ll like it, the plants-“

“No thank you,” Jaskier interrupts him, turning his eyes back on the porridge, ignoring the pang of guilt that shoots through his chest at the hurt look on Geralt’s face. “I’m tired. I think I’ll just go back to bed instead.”

Geralt nods. “Of course. You should get your rest.”

He hums noncommittally, leaving his still-full bowl on the table, dragging himself out of the kitchen.

He hasn’t closed an eye last night, to be quite honest. Whether it was because of what happened with Elias, or because he was scared of Wheezy Wulgrim, he doesn’t know. Either way, he’s beyond tired, today, and he intends on making true to his promise to go back to bed.

Which makes it all the more surprising when he somehow ends up back in the room with the alcove, his dusty and crumpled blanket still on the furthest cot to the right, where he left it yesterday. He sighs, resigning himself to his fate, too tired to go to his room, and walks to the alcove, snatching his blanket up from the bed as he goes.

He lays down on the wooden bench, pulling the dusty fabric over himself. It isn’t the most comfortable he’s ever been, but right now, he’s too tired- too scattered to care and within seconds, he’s asleep.

\---

He wakes up a few hours later, judging from the sunlight streaming in through the windows, falling directly onto his face. He yawns, nestling deeper into the blanket, ignoring the ache in his joints from the cold and the uncomfortable position.

He looks at the snowy mountaintops and pale, blue sky behind the windows, his eyes slowly focusing on his own reflection, his mussed hair and hollow cheeks, before they drift to the reflection of the person standing behind him.

“Elias,” he mutters, sighing deeply.

“Hi, mister Jaskier,” the boy’s little voice says behind him, “did your bring your lute?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, closing his eyes again, “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

It’s quiet for a while, and he half starts to suspect that Elias isn’t there anymore when he hears that clear voice again: “Mister Jaskier?”

“Hmm?”

Little knees hit the wooden bench behind him, the boy crawling over him and settling in front of him, between his chest and the window. Jaskier opens his eyes, meeting big, brown ones looking up at him with concern.

“Are you ill, mister Jaskier?” Elias asks.

He blinks, momentarily gazing out the window as he ponders the question. Sure, physically there’s nothing wrong with him – besides the fact that he’s more tired than he’s ever been before – but it can’t be healthy to be seeing one-armed men and little boys that aren’t there.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.

Elias pouts at him, and Jaskier sighs, unable to resist the urge to open the blanket, pulling the little boy to his chest. And sure, Elias might not _be_ real, but by the gods, does he _feel_ real – solid and warm in Jaskier’s arms, soft curls tickling his neck and chin, little puffs of warm breath against his skin.

“I was ill, too,” Elias mumbles.

“Hmm?” Jaskier hums, urging the boy to keep talking.

“It felt really bad, mister Jaskier.”

“I bet it did.”

“Master Thomasden told master Vesemir that I wouldn’t make it until the morning. What does that mean, mister Jaskier?”

He frowns and pulls back a bit, looking down at the boy. “He… he said what?”

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s voice echoes through the hall, and Jaskier looks over his shoulder at the door, hugging the boy to his chest tightly. “Jaskier!”

He sits up, pulling Elias into his lap as the boy also looks at the door, his black curls dancing when he cocks his head. “Who’s that, mister Jaskier?”

He smiles, carding his fingers through the boy’s soft hair. “That’s my friend, Geralt. He’s a Witcher. Don’t worry, he’s nice, he’ll take care of you if that’s alright.”

The door opens, and Geralt peeks around the corner, sighing in relief when he spots the pair of them. “There you are. What are you doing here? And who were you talking to?”

Jaskier grins. “I was…” He looks down, finding his arms empty, skin suddenly growing cold. “What…?”

Geralt cautiously crosses the space between them, the way he always does with Roach when something has panicked her, kneeling down in front of him, taking both of Jaskier’s hands from where they’re still hanging in the air aimlessly.

“Jaskier?” he asks, voice soft and soothing. “Is everything alright?”

He frowns, mouth opening and closing a few times, eyes tearing up as confusion overtakes him. “I… He was here. Right here in my arms… I don’t understand…”

“The boy? Elias?”

He nods, hands shaking in Geralt’s. “He was right here. I was holding him when you opened the door- did you not see him?”

Geralt looks up at him, eyes wide and concerned. “No, Jaskier,” he whispers, “I saw no one but you.”

The dam breaks, and a sob tears through his chest as his eyes overflow, curling in on himself as he cries. Geralt, pulls him closer, holding him as he makes small, comforting noises at the back of his throat, thumb rubbing against Jaskier’s nape soothingly.

“I don’t…” Jaskier hiccups “I don’t understand- _what’s happening to me?_ ”

Geralt just holds him more tightly, burying his nose in Jaskier’s neck. “It’s going to be alright, Jask. Whatever’s happening, you’re going to be alright.”

He can’t find it in himself to believe that.

After a few minutes, his tears finally dry, making way for a great, empty void within him, the edges of his mind fraying and falling apart, leaving him scattered and numb.

“I’m tired,” he mutters into Geralt’s shoulder, and he feels Geralt nod quickly, pulling back to gather him in his arms.

It’s the third time in a week, now, that Geralt’s carrying him and a part of Jaskier rejoices in being so close to the man he loves – hell, even a year ago he would’ve given anything to be carried around by Geralt this much.

But right now, there’s a larger part of him who’s screaming at him to get away from everyone and everything, who’s urging him to crawl into a corner and hide himself from the world and gather the scattered pieces of him until he’s whole again. The part of him that’s telling him that the touch of Geralt’s skin against his own is too much, every single sensation slamming into his mind until he feels like he can’t breathe anymore.

But he keeps quiet as Geralt carries him back to his room, even though his skin crawls at the touch, even though the sound of swords clashing together in the courtyard rings through his ears painfully, even though he sees Vesemir at the end of the hall, just standing there, staring at them as they go.

Jaskier closes his eyes and drifts.

\---

“Honestly, makes sense for him to go insane. He’s a bard. Bards are always a little insane to begin with, you know?”

“Shut the fuck up, Lambert, this is serious,” Geralt’s voice interrupts him, soft and muffled through the door, though Jaskier can still hear what he’s saying clearly from where he’s lying in bed. They probably think he’s asleep.

“What do you reckon is wrong with him?” Eskel asks.

“I don’t know.” Geralt sounds resigned, and Jaskier can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Nothing like this has ever happened to him before. And he doesn’t _smell_ like he’s ill, either.”

“Fuck,” Lambert curses. “This is really bad, isn’t it? Absolutely the perfect time for Vesemir to fucking go missing, as well- goddamn coward, running at the first sign of trouble yet again-”

“You don’t know that,” Eskel interrupts him, “maybe he’s in the west wing again, or somewhere in the library, doing research. Or maybe he’s in the green house.”

“I’ve checked everything,” Geralt mutters. “He’s just… gone.”

Jaskier frowns slightly. He _saw_ Vesemir, he remembers, in that hallway, right outside the door to the room with the alcove. He could tell them that.

The one-armed man in the chair raises his finger, winking at Jaskier as he lays it against his own lips, urging him to keep his mouth shut. Jaskier doesn’t need to be told that, though; he lost the energy to make a single sound hours ago.

He watches the man in the corner, amber eyes staring back at him, as the three Witchers outside his bedroom door continue to argue about what to do with him. In the daytime, he can see the one-armed man clearly now – his bald head, his blonde, braided beard, his tell-tale amber eyes, his broad shoulders and chest, and the empty air where his left arm should be.

Wheezy Wulgrim isn’t so scary in the sunlight, especially now that he’s no longer wheezing. Or maybe Jaskier’s just too numb to be scared anymore.

It doesn’t matter.

He closes his eyes again.

\---

He wakes up in the middle of the night, unable to move.

He simply sighs, opening his eyes and staring into the darkness as wheezy breathing joins his calm and steady one, watching as a dark silhouette stands from the chair in the corner of the room, making its way to the side of his bed.

The mattress dips as Wulgrim sits down, taking Jaskier’s hand in his only remaining one.

“Can you move?” that hoarse and reedy voice asks him, and Jaskier hums low in the back of his throat. “I assume that’s a ‘no’.”

“Hmm.”

“Sorry I scared you, earlier. I didn’t mean to. You weren’t supposed to see me.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t care anymore.

“And I’m sorry about this.” Jaskier frowns, confused now, and Wulgrim clarifies: “The sleep paralysis thing. I used to have it, too, and I think you might be having it because of me, now.”

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth a few times, loose tongue not entirely cooperating, though he does manage to slur a few words. “This… used to be… your bedroom.”

Wulgrim nods, amber eyes catching the moonlight falling in through the windows. “Aye, it was.”

“You’re… dead. Not real.”

Wulgrim lets out a quiet laugh. “Now, now, little bard. That’s not entirely true, is it? Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I’m not real.”

Jaskier blinks at him, shaking his head – muscles finally obeying him again – as Wulgrim simply stares at him, still holding his hand. “Wh… what?”

“Come on, old Thomasden said he saw you a lot in the library, so surely you’re a smart man. Smart enough to figure this out.”

And suddenly, it clicks. “No one ever truly leaves the walls of Kaer Morhen, as long as it’s their home,” he whispers the words Geralt told him a few days earlier.

A flash of teeth in the darkness as Wilgrum grins. “There’s a good lad.”

The door creaks open, and Jaskier looks at Geralt, feeling lighter than he’s done in days.

“Jaskier? Who were you talking to?”

He looks at the empty air beside his bed. “No one,” he lies.

“Hmm.” He can tell Geralt knows he’s not telling the truth, but the Witcher doesn’t mention it as he closes the door behind him, crossing the room to sit on the side of Jaskier’s bed, the mattress once again dipping. “How are you feeling?”

He smiles again, thoughts racing yet his mind blissfully empty, as if he’s in the eye of a storm. “Much better, thank you.”

Geralt cocks his head. “Are… are you sure?”

“Perfectly. Did you find Vesemir yet?”

“We… we did not- how do you know about that?”

“You talk rather loudly when you think I’m asleep.”

Geralt smiles sheepishly. “Oh. Sorry about that.”

He rolls onto his side, pulling back the blanket for Geralt. “Come. Join me.”

His Witcher scoffs lightly, though smiles as he does as he’s told, slipping into bed next to Jaskier. The bard sighs contently, laying his head on Geralt’s shoulder, feeling his strong and slow heartbeat beneath his cheek.

“You know,” he mumbles, “despite everything, I’m glad we still got to spend this last season together.”

He can practically hear Geralt’s frown. “What do you mean, ‘last season’?”

He smiles softly. “I think we both know, Geralt. We both know I’m growing old. Sure, I may not look the part yet, but I can feel it in my bones- I can feel them growing heavy and tired.” He sighs. “I think I’ll head to Oxenfurt in spring, buy a cottage by the sea.”

Geralt’s strong arms loop around him, pulling him closer. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Walk the Path with me. Please.”

“I can’t, Geralt. I’m not the young man I used to be. As much as I would love to spend a hundred years by your side, I just can’t walk that much anymore-“

“Then don’t,” Geralt interrupts him. “I’ll buy you a horse.”

“Geralt, even then it’s only a matter of a few years-“

“I’ll give you more years. I’ll find a way. I’ll ask Yen if she knows something to help the pain, or to slow your aging, or… or… _fuck,_ I’ll carry you if I have to. I don’t care.”

“Why?” he whispers. “Why go through all that trouble? I’ll only slow you down and get in your way.”

“Because you’re my friend.”

He scoffs lightly. “Vesemir is your friend, too, yet I don’t see you carrying _him_ down the mountain.”

“That’s different.”

He pushes himself up on one elbow, looking down at the vague outline of Geralt’s face, though he knows Geralt’s able to see him clearly in the dark. “How? How is that different, Geralt?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, his hand simply coming up to push the stray strands of hair out of Jaskier’s face, and for the first time in years, he understands. He sighs, lowering himself back down on the bed, tracing patterns on Geralt’s chest.

“It’s alright,” he mutters. “You don’t have to say it.”

“I should,” Geralt whispers, but Jaskier shakes his head.

“You don’t have to.”

It’s quiet between them for a while, Geralt’s fingers slowly combing through Jaskier’s hair, blunt fingernails gently scraping at his scalp.

“You know,” Jaskier eventually mumbles, “I’ve loved you since the very beginning. The moment you told the elves to let me go because I was just a human, I was lost. You’ve always been noble, even when you don’t need to be.”

The silence stretches on, thick and comfortable, sweet and clear like honey, warm and heavy like a blanket. If it hadn’t been for Geralt’s fingers still carding through the small hairs at his nape, he would’ve thought that the Witcher had fallen asleep.

“That evening,” Geralt whispers into the dark, “after the elves. You were sitting by the campfire, plucking your new lute and muttering rhymes under your breath. You looked so… soft, so beautiful, so _human_. That was the moment I fell in love with you. I should’ve said something sooner.”

Jaskier smiles, tears slipping over his lashes, trailing down his cheeks, dampening Geralt’s shirt. “Would it have made a difference? We still had each other, all these years, even if we didn’t say it out loud.”

“I don’t want to lose you.” Geralt’s voice breaks, and Jaskier blindly lifts his hand to cup Geralt’s cheek, lifting the tears away.

“I know you don’t,” he whispers. “But you will.” Geralt sniffs, and Jaskier presses his nose to the underside of his jaw. “I’m sorry it had to be like this, love.”

“I love you, Jask.”

“I love you too, Geralt.” He uses the hand on Geralt’s cheek to turn his head, finding his lips in the dark, pressing them together softly, their tears blending into each other.

And in the end, it changes nothing. He’s spent all these decades loving Geralt, and Geralt’s spent them all loving him back, even if neither of them ever said it out loud. He will still go to Oxenfurt, come the spring, and he will still spend his last years on the coast, too rusted to go back to the Path. He will listen to the waves, he will hold Geralt’s hand, and with his dying breath, he’ll tell his Witcher that he loves him.

It’s as good an end as any.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” he whispers against Geralt’s lips. “If you’d have said it sooner, I would’ve still followed you to the ends of the earth, I still would’ve spent my life loving you with all my heart.”

“Is there nothing you would’ve changed, if you knew? Nothing you regret or missed out on?”

He smiles. “Oh, my love, there are so many things I regret, so many things I missed out on. But nothing I would’ve changed, no.”

“Tell me. Tell me, and I will give it to you. I’ll give you everything you could ever want.”

He sighs, shaking his head, following the line of Geralt’s cheekbone with the tip of his finger. “There are just things you can’t give me, love.”

“Tell me anyways.”

“Geralt, what happened, happened, and it doesn’t do well to dwell on the past for too long. What matters is what we have now.”

The “Hmm” that follows marks the end of their conversation, even though he can tell Geralt’s not happy with his answer, and Jaskier closes his eyes, letting himself slip into sleep to the rhythmic beating of Geralt’s heart.

He dreams of a younger version of himself, standing outside a cottage by the sea. Gulls are crying out over his head, waves crashing in the distance as the salty wind makes the long grass around his legs dance.

He smiles as he sees a silhouette appearing on the horizon, a man on a horse speeding towards the cottage in full gallop, their energy momentarily replenished at the sight of home. A small gasp distracts him, though, and he watches as his little Elias jumps up, crying out in joy when he spots Geralt and Roach.

“Papa!” he shouts, running towards Jaskier and taking his hand, tugging him towards the path. “Papa, look! Daddy’s home!”

Jaskier grins again, chest as light as the sky above him, giddy with the joy of seeing Geralt again. “I can see that, Elias. Go on, sweetheart, go greet him.”

Geralt jumps off of Roach before she even slows to a halt as little Elias runs towards him. Geralt uses the boy’s momentum to lift him up, hugging him close to his chest, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes, the amber catching the sunlight as he looks at Jaskier.

Jaskier smiles again, crossing the distance between them, stretching out his hand for Geralt’s unoccupied one to take, the other gripping the edge of his love’s armour to pull him closer, kissing him softly.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

“I missed you, too,” Geralt replies, hand tightening in Jaskier’s, his other arm pulling Elias closer. “Both of you. How’s your spring been?”

“Oh, nothing special. Elias lost three teeth, though.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up momentarily as he looks at Elias, who nods, showing off his new teeth growing in. “Looks like our little boy’s growing up.”

“How long until you have to leave again?”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, brows creasing. “I’ll probably leave for a few weeks in autumn to take some contracts, but I’ll be yours all summer and winter.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier smiles again. “Good. Every day without you is one too long. Now, come on, let’s go inside. It’s nearly lunchtime.”

Geralt pulls him closer for another kiss, only breaking it when their little boy starts wriggling in his arms. Gulls cry out overhead, waves crash in the distance, the sun makes Geralt’s gut-riddled hair glow, and his love smiles softly at him while little Elias complains that he’s hungry and that he wants daddy to tell him about all the monsters he’s killed out on the Path this past spring.

It’s everything Jaskier ever wanted. It’s everything he’ll never get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was angsty but the next chapter is when things really start to fall into place!  
> Also I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan!
> 
> Again, please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment! Thank you!


	4. Fading I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, alright, this is the chapter where things really come to a head. Some shit gets resolved. Some not yet.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

He slips out of bed early in the morning, right after dawn. He takes a second at the door to look back at Geralt’s sleeping form, his white hair fanning over the pillow, lips slightly parted and legs tangled in the sheets. He’s as beautiful as ever.

He closes the door behind him quietly, tying the ribbon of the robe he brought with him around his waist, bare feet padding along the stone floor, the cold seeping into his skin, though he doesn’t mind it too much.

He remembers the first morning he spent within the walls of Kaer Morhen, he remembers getting lost and ending up in the destroyed west wing. By now, though, he knows enough about the layout of the keep not to get lost. No, this time, he heads for the west wing with a purpose: to find Vesemir.

He shivers slightly as the cold creeps up his legs, raising goosebumps in its wake, and he tucks his hands into his armpits, basking in the short bursts of pale sunlight he walks through every time he passes a window. The sun is rising slowly, the sky above Kaer Morhen turning red and golden. It won’t be long until breakfast.

As he walks, the stones around him become more and more worn, pieces of them chipped away by long-rusted weapons, parts of the windows lost to time and violence, an occasional door shattered, only the last splinters of them visible on their hinges, dust billowing around him with every step he takes.

And finally, he finds it: the worn wooden door he’d discovered on his first day. The one that leads to the west tower. There are long scratches in the wood, as if someone’s tried to get in using their sword, the stones around it equally damaged. To his left, a hallway stretches out, the end of it hidden in shadows.

And now that he’s back, he notices something about the door he didn’t see the first time: the hinges are rusted. The lock, however, is not.

He stretches his hand out towards the knob, the cool metal chilling his fingertips to the bone and-

“Jaskier! What are you doing here?”

He smiles in satisfaction before turning to the left, to where Vesemir is briskly walking towards him, brow furrowed in confusion.

“I’m looking for you.”

Vesemir envelops his shoulders with his warm hands, and Jaskier shivers, only now truly feeling the cold. “Well, here I am. You’re freezing, little bard, let’s get you in front of a fire.”

He follows the older Witcher through the hallways, less and less dust coating his bare feet the closer they get to the main hall. Their walk is quiet, and Jaskier idly hums a melody to himself, before he suddenly remembers that elvish poem he read, about a week ago.

_We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,  
Along the passages they come and go,  
Impalpable impressions on the air,  
A sense of something moving to and fro._

Eventually, though, they reach the kitchen, and Vesemir lights the hearth with a quick _Igni,_ busying himself with filling the teapot and putting it over the fire before cutting a few slices of bread, setting the plate down in front of Jaskier.

“Thank you, Vesemir.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier smiles to himself. He can see where Geralt got his usual manner of communication. “What were you doing out there, little bard?”

“Like I said, I was looking for you.”

“You should know I wouldn’t be in the west tower. I told you it’s dangerous in there.”

“I know. But I knew you’d try to stop me. I knew I’d find you that way.”

Vesemir sighs, looking at him for a few moments, concern furrowing his brow. “Well, you got lucky. What if I hadn’t seen you trying to enter the tower? What if I hadn’t been there?”

He leans his chin on his hand. He’s had a hunch about this ever since he talked with Wilgrum, and the fact that he managed to find Vesemir this way seems to have confirmed it, but still, he’s not _entirely_ certain about it. If he gets it wrong, he’ll make a fool out of himself. If he doesn’t… well…

“You know what I find strange?” he asks, and Vesemir pulls an eyebrow up.

“Tell me, little bard, what do you find strange?”

He chews on his bottom lip a bit. “Well, you seem like a brave and honourable man – at least, from what I’ve gathered over the past week and from all the stories Geralt’s told me about you. So why’d you run and hide? During the sacking of Kaer Morhen, I mean.”

Vesemir closes his eyes for a second, before turning around, taking the teapot off the fire and busying himself with making the tea, his back turned to Jaskier. “I chickened out. That’s all there is to say about that.”

“But I don’t think you did.” Vesemir’s muscles tense as he leans his palms on the countertop, head hanging between his shoulders. “I think you didn’t run and hide. I think you stood your ground.”

“I didn’t,” Vesemir says without any bite, without any conviction.

Jaskier stands from the table, walking around it to lean his hip against the countertop next to Vesemir, arms folded in front of his chest.

“I think,” he says quietly, “that you fought. Until the very end.”

Vesemir doesn’t meet his eye, hands trembling where they’re braced against the countertop.

“That west tower isn’t about to crumble apart, is it? That’s just something you’ve told your sons because you don’t want them to find your body.”

It’s quiet for a while, the silence hanging thick and heavy in the kitchen, almost palpable. And Jaskier hopes. He hopes he’s wrong, that Vesemir will call him an idiot for saying such things and that he’ll tell Jaskier that the ghosts of Kaer Morhen aren’t real and _he’s certainly not one of them, thank you very much._

“Don’t tell them,” Vesemir says instead, and Jaskier’s heart stops for half a second.

“I won’t,” he promises, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. “But… why? Why didn’t you tell them? Why’d you…”

“Lead them on? Make them believe a lie?” Vesemir sighs, shakes his head before wiping a hand over his face. “After…” he sighs again “after… the sacking- _after I died,_ I knew I had become one of them, one of the ghosts-“

“So you knew about them? Before, I mean.”

Vesemir scoffs lightly. “It wasn’t a secret, back in the old days. Everyone here knew that no one ever truly leaves the Walls of Kaer Morhen as long as it’s their home. Back then, they walked among us, and if suddenly a new ghost appeared, we knew we had to find a Witcher’s body somewhere on the Path. It was common knowledge: you live on the Path, you die on the Path, you return home, you get to spend as much time here as you want, and if you’re ready to go, then you go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“Honestly, little bard? I don’t know. Some used to say you’d become part of the walls of Kaer Morhen, others said that you would become pure Chaos. We just called it ‘fading’.” He shrugs. “Either way, after the sacking, I was… numb. In shock. And I walked the halls, mourning my brothers and the children that were killed and suddenly… I saw Eskel.

“He’d returned home for the winter, only to find it completely destroyed, coated in the blood of his family. And he saw me, standing right there in the rubble. ‘Oh, thank the gods, at least someone survived,’ he said- he looked so _relieved,_ little bard. And then Lambert arrived, and then Geralt, and the entire time we were cleaning up the keep and burning the bodies, all they could say was: ‘At least old Vesemir survived. At least we’re not alone.’”

The older Witcher shakes his head. “I didn’t have the heart to tell them. So I replaced the ruined lock on the west tower and told them the structure was about to fall apart, and I prayed to all the gods that they would never discover my body.”

“But… but you have to tell them at some point, don’t you?”

“Tell who what?” He turns around at Lambert’s voice, finding the younger wolf standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

He looks at Vesemir, sees the older Witcher pale and shake his head. “That we’re running out of White Gull,” the older Witcher lies, and Jaskier feels his eyes widen. “I dropped some of the bottles.”

Lambert clenches his jaw, looking annoyed, before he composes himself, shrugging as he sits down at the table, pulling Jaskier’s still-full plate towards himself. “So be it. Was that why you were hiding from us? Because you didn’t have the guts to tell us?”

“Tell us what?” This time it’s Eskel and Geralt who are standing in the doorway, making their way into the kitchen.

“Vesemir’s smashed some bottles of White Gull. We’re running out,” Lambert supplies.

“Hmm. So be it,” Geralt says, crossing the kitchen to stand in front of Jaskier. “How are you feeling?” he asks softly, one hand coming up to rest on Jaskier’s shoulder, but he bats it away.

“Seriously?” he asks Vesemir, and the older wolf has the decency to look ashamed. “ _Seriously?_ So you’re just going to say nothing, once again? You’re just going to keep lying to _everyone_ and pretend it’s all rainbows and sunshine?”

Vesemir straightens and looks Jaskier in the eye, something in his face hardening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, little bard. I think your mind is playing tricks on you again.”

He bristles, skin flushing red-hot with anger, hands trembling with suppressed rage as he points a finger at the Witcher. “ _No._ No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to tell me _everything_ only to tell everyone else that I’m insane just because you’re too scared to tell the truth.” He laughs without mirth, anger flaring up again. “You know what? Lambert’s right. You _are_ a coward.”

He turns around, shoving Geralt’s concerned hand out the way once more, stalking out of the kitchen and slamming the door behind him for good measure.

Back in his room, he grabs his bag from the bottom of the wardrobe, snatching neatly folded clothes off the shelves and stuffing them haphazardly into the bag.

“Where are you going, little bard?” Wulgrim’s reedy voice asks behind him.

“Away,” Jaskier replies shortly. “I’ve had fucking enough of this place. I’m going to Oxenfurt and I’m going to drink Toussaint wine with normal, civilized, _living_ people until I can’t even remember the name Kaer Morhen.”

“Look out the window, little bard-“

“My name is _not_ little bard, you fucking-“

“It’s snowing. It’s a suicide mission for a human like you to go down the Killer now. It’ll be the death of you, little bard.”

He huffs, whirling around to face the dead Witcher. “So be it! I can’t stay in this place one _fucking_ second longer! Everyone thinks me some insane person, and Geralt won’t stop looking at me like I’m about to snap and lose my mind completely, and Vesemir keeps _fucking denying everything, because he’s too much of a coward to come clean!”_

He’s shouting by the end of his sentence, panting slightly as a red-hot blush spreads across his face and neck, making his ears glow.

Wulgrim doesn’t seem to impressed and nods. “Alright. If you really want to leave Kaer Morhen, then go ahead. Break your neck when you slip in the snow, if that’s what you really want. But at least tell Elias why you’re leaving. He won’t understand unless you do.”

Something cold washes over Jaskier like a bucket of well water, as he remembers the little boy that burrowed his way into Jaskier’s heart. Gods, how could he forget?

He nods slowly, taking some clothes from his bag – he’s still in his bloody robe, for the love of the gods – mind a bit scattered as he realizes that he’ll have to leave the little one behind.

When he looks at the chair in the corner again, Wulgrim’s gone.

Jaskier takes his bag and lute case, casting one last look around the room to see if he hasn’t forgotten anything, before setting out into the halls of Kaer Morhen, one last time.

He finds the alcove room without much trouble, and sets his things down on one of the beds closest to the door, shutting it quietly behind him. His footsteps bounce off the walls, the only sound in the quiet room besides his own breathing, as he slowly walks to the bench, lowering himself down on it, pulling the blanket that’s lying there around his shoulders.

He sighs and closes his eyes. “Elias?” he says softly. “Are you there?”

It’s quiet for a few seconds as he waits patiently for that little voice to reach his ears, smiling when it finally does. “Is the scary man gone, mister Jaskier?”

He opens his eyes, finding little Elias in front of him, looking up at Jaskier with big, brown eyes.

“What scary man, Elias?”

The boy takes a hesitant step towards him and Jaskier reaches out to hook his hands under the boy’s armpits, lifting him into his lap, where Elias curls up against his chest, burying his face in Jaskier’s shoulder.

“The one with the white hair,” he mumbles, before sticking his thumb into his mouth, the other hand playing with Jaskier’s fingers. “He made you upset.”

Jaskier sighs, pulling the boy close and burying his nose in those soft curls. “It’s alright, Elias,” he says gently, “Geralt’s a friend. He didn’t hurt me and he’s not going to hurt you, either.”

He sits there for a while, Elias in his lap, hugging the boy to his chest tightly. He’s loathe to admit it, but he doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to leave the little one behind, doesn’t want to part with the warmth in and against his chest. He’s tired of feeling cold and he’s tired of letting go.

“Mister Jaskier?” his little one asks, and something cracks in Jaskier’s heart when he realizes he’s come to think of Elias as _his_ little one.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t trust his voice not to break, so he hums his question instead.

“Can… can you sing a song?”

He smiles softly, gently carding his fingers through those black curls, resting his cheek on the top of Elias’ head. “Of course, baby. Let me think of something.”

He closes his eyes, gently rocking them both back and forth, as he softly starts to sing a song he remembers his mother singing for him when he was younger.

“ _You are my sunshine. My only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey.”_

He squeezes his eyes shut, the corners of his mouth pulling down when frustration and grief hit him like a wave, tears almost spilling over. He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to leave Elias behind.

“ _You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you._ ” His arms shake as they hold Elias close to him, chest aching as he tries to keep in a sob. _“Please don’t take my sunshine away.”_

“Mister Jaskier?” Elias whispers, and Jaskier can only nod. “I don’t have a papa.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Can… can you be mine?”

The tears finally spill over, and he nods, pulling back slightly to kiss the boy’s cheek, his nose, his forehead, and finally, his soft curls. “Of course, baby. Of course I’ll be your papa. I love you so, my little Elias.”

He smiles at his little boy, cradling his chubby face in his hands as Elias smiles back. He kisses the boy’s forehead again, pulling him close, rocking them both back and forth as he starts humming.

“Jaskier? Jaskier!” He hears his name echo through the hall in several voices, most of them distant, one closer by.

Elias stirs. “Papa, is that the scary man again?”

Jaskier rubs a soothing hand up and down the boy’s back, pulling the blanket closer around both of them like a shield against the non-existent. “It is the man with the white hair, yes. But he’s my friend, baby. He won’t hurt either of us.” He looks at his boy as he tucks a wayward curl behind his ear. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.”

“Promise?”

He nods. “Promise,” he whispers, before tucking Elias back under his chin, resuming his humming. After a few seconds, Elias starts to hum along with him.

“Jaskier!” The door to the room opens, Geralt visibly relaxing when he sees Jaskier, before his eyes drift down to look at Elias, who turns his head slightly to peek at the Witcher, quickly burying his face in Jaskier’s chest when he sees Geralt looking.

But, unlike the other times, he stays, a solid weight in Jaskier’s lap, his curls tickling his chin, his breath puffing against his neck.

“Papa,” Elias whimpers softly, though Jaskier knows it’s loud enough for Geralt to hear, as amber eyes snap back up to his face, wide and disbelieving and soft and _hurt._

“It’s okay, baby,” Jaskier whispers, pressing his cheek to the side of Elias’ face, looking at Geralt, still. “Papa’s here, papa’s got you.”

Slowly, he reaches his arm out and Geralt walks forward cautiously, eyes flicking between Jaskier and the little boy in his lap, wide as if he still has a rough time believing what he’s seeing. Not that Jaskier blames him.

Geralt takes his hand, kneeling in front of him and the boy, and Jaskier smiles at him as he runs his thumb along his Witcher’s knuckles.

“Elias?” he whispers. “Can you say hello to papa’s friend?”

Slowly, Elias turns his head to look at Geralt with one eye. “Hi,” he whispers, voice small, and something in Jaskier’s heart melts when Geralt smiles softly.

“Hi,” he says gently. “I’m Geralt. Nice to meet you, Elias.”

The boy mumbles something, before burying his face in Jaskier’s chest again. Jaskier smiles, rubbing small circles into Elias’ back. “Baby, can I tell Geralt what you told me yesterday?” Elias nods and Jaskier looks at Geralt. “Elias told me he was sick for a while. He said that one master Thomasden told master Vesemir that Elias wouldn’t make it until the morning. Isn’t that right, baby?”

Elias nods. “But I felt better in the morning.”

“He felt better in the morning,” Jaskier repeats, one eyebrow pulled up at Geralt. _Please,_ he quietly begs in his head, _please understand what I’m trying to tell you._

And then Geralt’s eyes widen a fraction. “Elias?” he asks softly. “You seem like a smart boy.”

Elias turns his face to look at Geralt, nodding a bit.

“Can you tell me what year it is?”

“Eleven… nine,” Elias whispers.

“Eleven hundred and nine?” The boy nods, and when Geralt looks at Jaskier, he knows that his Witcher understands. _Gods,_ Jaskier wonders to himself, _has Elias really been here for over a hundred years?_

“Well done, baby,” he whispers instead, “you’re so smart.”

Elias mumbles something and yawns, looping his stubby arms around Jaskier’s neck, burying his face into his shoulder and drooling all over his doublet as his breathing deepens, brown eyes fluttering closed, slipping into sleep.

“Jaskier…” Geralt whispers. “Is… is he… he said… and he called you papa.”

He smiles softly, gently petting Elias’ curls. “Hmm. Seems like he’s adopted me. Not that I mind, of course.”

“I can’t smell him. And the year…”

“You finally understand, don’t you?”

Geralt looks at Elias, reaching a hand out to softly touch the boy’s hair, only to have it go through him entirely. “I… I think I do,” he whispers. “Jask, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“But you did,” Jaskier says gently. “You just didn’t believe what I saw was real.”

“But it is. I’m sorry.”

He smiles. “It’s alright. I wouldn’t believe me, either.” He sighs, shifting Elias’ weight in his lap slightly. “So now what? I’m sure that if we tell Eskel, he’ll believe us, but Lambert… I don’t know about him.”

“So you’re… you’re staying?”

His eyes drift to his bag and lute, both on the bed closest to the door, and he sighs, arms tightening around his little one slightly. “I suppose so. No use in leaving now, too. The Killer would… well, kill me if I did.”

One corner of Geralt’s mouth pulls up. “Since when are you an expert on the Killer?”

He scoffs. “Well, they don’t call it _the Killer_ for no reason.” He doesn’t mention Wulgrim just yet – maybe he’ll tell Geralt about that later.

He sighs, standing up. The blanket slides off his shoulder and he lets out a small discontented sound in disappointment as the warmth disappears.

Geralt hums, bending down to pick the blanket up, draping it around Jaskier and Elias, tying a knot with two of the corners so that it’ll stay in place. “There we go,” he mutters before kissing Jaskier softly. “Perfect. _You’re_ perfect.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I changed my mind, you’re too cheesy to be perfect,” Geralt mumbles against his lips and Jaskier laughs.

“Oh, please, I know you love me, Witcher.”

Geralt’s face goes soft, grin melting into something unbelievably fond. “I do. I do love you, Jask. More than anything.”

“I love you too, Geralt,” he whispers. “I would love to say more than anything, too, but I’m afraid our little Elias has burrowed his way into my heart quite deeply.”

“Hmm. I can live with that.”

“So now what?”

Geralt hums again, brows twitching together slightly. “We… we have to tell the others, don’t we? Because they still think you’re insane.”

He sighs softly, tucking a strand of white hair behind Geralt’s ear. “That’s up to you, love. I can live with them thinking that I’m crazy. It’s up to you to decide whether you want to tell them or not.”

Geralt takes a few seconds to think, amber eyes drifting to Elias as he lifts his hand to try to touch the boy again. His fingers go right through him. “You’re… you’re holding him,” he mumbles, “but I can’t even touch him. Why?”

Jaskier sighs. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“I want to tell them,” Geralt says suddenly. “I want to tell Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir. They deserve to know.”

Jaskier doesn’t mention that Vesemir doesn’t need to be told about this anymore, and simply nods. “Let’s go, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan!
> 
> Again, please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!


	5. Fading II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

“Geralt?” he whispers as they walk through the long, winding halls, the makeshift cloak dragging through the dust behind him, keeping him and his little Elias warm. “Can you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Fighting. In the courtyard.”

Geralt stops walking and Jaskier stills after a few steps as well, looking back to see his Witcher furrow his brows, cock his head. “No. I can’t say I do.”

Jaskier sighs softly, making his way to one of the windows, eyes hurting a bit as the bright sunlight reflects on the snow outside and he has to give himself a bit of time to adjust. “Do you see them?”

He feels Geralt’s presence behind him more than he sees it as his Witcher looks out the window as well. “See who?”

Jaskier hums thoughtfully as he stares at the small figures in the courtyard, at the two older Witchers shouting out training drills at the dozen or so teens holding blunt, rusted swords. The clanging of metal on metal and the Witchers’ shouting fills his ears, and he watches with fascination as one of the instructors shows off a slash-pirouette he’s seen Geralt perform hundreds of times.

They don’t leave footprints in the snow.

“I thought so,” he mumbles, before turning around, leaving a stunned Geralt to trail after him.

After a few minutes, he can hear doors slamming in the distance, their thuds echoing through the empty halls, a voice calling his name, getting louder and louder the closer they get to the source. They turn one last corner to find Eskel, walking out of one of the unoccupied rooms, shoulders tense, brow furrowed, the first syllable of Jaskier’s name dying on his lips as soon as he spots them.

“Oh, thank the gods. I was scared you’d taken your chances with the Killer, little bard. Lambert’s searching for you out there.”

“Don’t worry,” Jaskier says, smiling softly, soft curls tickling his nose as he looks down at Elias a bit. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

He can pinpoint the exact moment Eskel sees little Elias – amber eyes widen, scars stretching as Eskel’s face goes slack, mouth falling open a bit. “What-?”

His little one’s awake, now, mumbling a bit as he turns his head to sleepily look at Eskel from the corner of his eye. “Papa,” he whispers, tensing in Jaskier’s arms, small hands tightening around his neck.

Eskel looks as confused as Geralt did when he met Elias, his mouth opening and closing a few times, and Jaskier can practically _see_ the wheels turning in his head, probably deciding what to ask first. “P- papa?” the Witcher eventually settles on.

Jaskier smiles and nods, before he looks at Elias. “It’s okay, baby. Eskel’s nice. Want to say hi to him?” Elias shrugs and Jaskier takes that as an invitation to walk towards the other Witcher, who’s still staring at the little boy with wide eyes.

Jaskier stops right in front of him and Eskel’s gaze snaps back up to his face. “Jaskier…” he whispers, brows knitting together, “what’s going on?”

“Eskel,” Geralt says behind him softly and Eskel’s attention shifts again. “Listen. And smell.”

The Witcher shakes his head minutely, but something in Geralt’s face must’ve convinced him, because he closes his eyes, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. A moment passes. Eskel’s frown deepens and he cocks his head. Another moment comes and goes.

Amber eyes snap open, wide and disbelieving and fixed on the little boy in Jaskier’s arms.

“Now _feel_ ,” Geralt commands behind him, and Eskel lifts a hesitant hand to Elias’ curls.

His fingers pass right through the boy.

“Oh,” he breathes, as his hand drops limply by his side. “How? How are you holding him?”

Jaskier shrugs, rubbing soothing circles into Elias’ back as the boy loses interest in what’s going on, slipping back into sleep, his thumb tucked in his mouth “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“How long?” The question is directed at Geralt. “How long have you known?”

“Found out less than an hour ago,” Geralt says softly, his voice suddenly a lot closer, his hand closing warm and reassuring around Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I don’t… Is he…?” Eskel looks between the three of them, eyes never lingering on Elias too long, as if his suspicions will become reality if he looks at the boy for longer than a split second.

“Dead?” Geralt asks. “Yes.” Jaskier clicks his tongue in annoyance, ducking his head to make sure Elias is asleep. He’s quite sure his little boy doesn’t know he’s dead, and that he doesn’t really have the capabilities to understand the gravity of it all. No, it’s better to just let him believe what he believes, and to let him live what he thinks is a normal life.

“I… it’s….” Amber eyes snap back up to Jaskier. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I thought you’d gone mad.”

He shakes his head. “It’s quite alright.”

“I just… I don’t know what to say.”

Jaskier sighs, shakes his head again. “You don’t have to say anything.” He looks at Geralt. “Neither of you do. I know it’s a lot to take in. All I want is for my little Elias to be happy.” He chews his lip, looking in the direction of where the keep’s front door must be. “And maybe we should get Lambert out of the cold.”

Geralt grins. “Hmm. I don’t know about that. Maybe we should let him be for a little while. Maybe then he’ll finally learn to cool down.”

Eskel grins back at his brother, the worry and insecurity making way for a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right, Geralt. Perhaps we should just leave him alone, like he’s always asking us to do. A little bit of snow won’t hurt him.”

Jaskier scoffs, slapping Geralt on the arm, before pointing an accusing finger at Eskel. “That could have been _you_ out there-“

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

He closes his eyes, letting out a sigh, trying to push the annoyance away as Elias stirs in his arms again. “Bloody Witchers,” he mutters, before turning back to said bloody Witchers. “Listen. Go get your brother out of the snow. Whether you want to tell him about this or not, I don’t care. He just needs to know I’m not running away.”

With that, he resolutely spins on his heels, stalking away from the two men, towards the kitchen.

\---

“The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spider web. Down came the rain and washed the spider away-“ Elias giggles as Jaskier uses his wiggling fingers to tickle the boy’s tummy, cheeks hurting with how wide he’s smiling, though he makes sure the boy doesn’t accidentally get too close to the fire they’re sitting in front of.

“Out came the sun and dried up all the rain. The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the web again.”

Elias laughs again, climbing into Jaskier’s lap, chubby fists trying to grab his hands. “Again, again!”

He levels his little one with a stern look – no small feat, given how wide he’s still smiling. “What do we say when we ask for something?”

Elias pouts, brows furrowing as he thinks. “P- please?”

He nods. “Good boy. We say please.” He takes a deep breath, freeing his fingers from Elias’ grip to start the rhyme again. “The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the sp-“

He looks up when the door to the kitchen opens, the eldest Witcher stepping through.

“Master Vesemir!” Elias cries out, clambering out of Jaskier’s lap to leap at the wolf, and Vesemir catches him easily in his arms.

“Ah, little Elias. I was wondering where you’d gone.”

“Jaskier found him in the room with the alcove,” Geralt provides as he and Eskel step into the kitchen as well. “Though… so far, he’s been the only one who can hold Elias. How… how do you manage, Vesemir?”

Jaskier and Vesemir exchange a look, amber eyes pleading him not to say a word. So he doesn’t.

“Hmm. I don’t know how I do it,” the Witcher says, as Elias clambers all over his shoulders and back, planting his small feet on Vesemir’s shoulders and head, “but I think I know how our little bard manages.”

Jaskier feels his eyebrows shoot up. “Please. Do tell.”

Vesemir sighs, lifting Elias up onto his shoulders, handing the boy a wooden horse statue from his pocket to keep him busy. “Well, I’ve consulted the books, and it seems to me that you’re a medium. A bridge between the living world and the next.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums thoughtfully, walking over to Vesemir to pull Elias from his shoulders when his little one stretches his arms out to him, settling on one of the benches with the boy in his lap. “But… why didn’t I notice anything like this before, then?”

Eskel shrugs. “Maybe Kaer Morhen is the only place with…” he glances at Elias “…you know. Or maybe you just never noticed before because you thought they were normal people.”

He frowns, looking at the wall as he rests his chin on Elias’ head, curls tickling his skin. “I suppose that’s possible. There was this… painter, back in Lettenhove. I could sit for hours on end watching him paint, though I never really understood what he was doing, since the portrait never changed. One day I mentioned him to my parents, and…”

“They told you he wasn’t real,” Geralt mutters, something raw and regretful flashing across his face. “Just like we told you Elias wasn’t. Jask, I’m so-“

“Geralt, save it,” Jaskier interrupts him. “What’s done is done and you’re not to blame for any of this.” He sighs. “It makes sense, though – a medium. Wulgrim did say that I wasn’t supposed to see him.”

“Wulgrim?” Eskel asks. “ _Wheezy_ Wulgrim? You talked to him?”

“Well, I’m sure he doesn’t really appreciate that nickname, but yes, I talked to him. We spent many a paralysed night together. He’s quite nice, you know, when he’s not busy looming over my bed like some sort of shadow demon.”

“The man you saw during your sleep paralysis,” Geralt whispers, eyes wide, “that was him?”

“Hmm. It was. Good fellow. Talks a lot.”

Eskel frowns. “Did you see anyone else in the keep?”

He shrugs. “Well, there’s our little one here,” he says, smiling widely as Elias looks up at him, before the boy deems the conversation unworthy of his attention and focuses on the wooden horse again, “and the man in the library. I only saw him once, though. I think he might’ve cleaned up a book of mine on my first day, after I put it on the windowsill for later.”

“Hmm. Must be Thomasden,” Vesemir provides. “The old librarian and healer. He did like things neat.”

“And of course the people in the courtyard. Two older Witchers and a bunch of younger trainees.”

The air in the room grows tense, and Jaskier can feel the silence weighing down on him heavily.

“Must be younger Witchers who didn’t survive the Trials,” Eskel whispers, amber eyes fixed on a place far, far away.

“Right,” Jaskier mutters. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

The door chooses the right time to open, Lambert painting the floor white as snow falls off his coat. “Melitele’s fucking tits, little bard. You gave us a good scare.”

“Tits!” Elias pipes up from Jaskier’s lap, grinning wildly. “Tits!”

He laughs nervously. “That’s a no-no word, Elias. We don’t say that word.”

The boy pouts. “Why not?”

“It’s not a nice word.” Silently, he thanks all his lucky stars that Elias picked ‘tits’ to focus on, instead of ‘fucking’. Small blessings, he supposes.

“Uh…” He looks back up at Lambert’s voice, finding the youngest Witcher confused in front of him, staring at the boy in Jaskier’s lap. “Anyone care to tell me what’s going on?”

Jaskier turns Elias so that he’s sitting sideways in his lap, pushing the boy against his chest, covering his other ear with his hand before he nods at Geralt. His Witcher nods back and turns towards his younger brother.

“Ghosts are real. This keep’s riddled with them.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not, Lamb,” Eskel butts in. “It’s really not. Can you hear or smell the boy?”

“Of course I c-“ Lambert frowns, turning his face towards Elias, who seems oblivious and just happy to be held by his papa. “I can’t,” he whispers.

“There we go. Ghosts are real. Don’t mention it to the boy. And Jaskier can see the ghosts, because he’s a medium,” Geralt says quickly. “Any questions?”

Lambert scoffs. “A million. But I actually really don’t even want to know. Just some more bullshit on the very long list of bullshit that is my life. Eskel fucked a succubus. Vesemir is a coward. Geralt somehow managed to find a boyfriend before any of us. The keep is riddled with ghosts. Anyone else want to add something? I’m in the mood for some fuckery anyways.”

“Can you at least _try_ to stop swearing in front of the kid, maybe?” Eskel asks, pinching the bridge of his nose between his two fingers.

Lambert throws his hands in the air dramatically. “I fucking hate it here. First the bard goes insane but not really, then Vesemir smashes all the White Gull, and now I can’t even fucking swear anymore? Fuck all of you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you _-_ “ he emphasizes every ‘fuck you’ with a finger pointed at Eskel, Geralt, and Jaskier, the last one reserved for Vesemir, “and _especially_ you. _Fuck you._ ”

Vesemir rolls his eyes. “If it’s a small comfort- no bottles of White Gull were smashed.”

“Then why the fuck did you hide when we needed you? Just to fucking spite us, you old asshole?”

Jaskier and Vesemir exchange a look and suddenly, something in the eldest Witcher’s face shifts, a certain determination flitting across his features. “You said you were ready for more bullshit? Fine. So be it. It’s high time I came clean anyway.”

He stands up, crossing the space between them, slipping a key from his pocket and handing it to Jaskier before lifting Elias from his lap, setting the boy on his hip. Amber eyes bore into his, and Jaskier’s fingers close around the cold metal.

“I can’t do it, little bard. But I know you can. Take them to the west tower, to the highest floor. Show them what I could not.”

Jaskier nods once and turns around, pushing his way past three Witchers, out of the kitchen. He doesn’t hear their footsteps behind them – he never does – but their loud questions are indication enough that they’re following him.

“Jask, what’s going on?”

“What the fuck did he mean, show us what he could not? Is it some kind of sex dungeon?”

“Shut the fuck up, Lambert. But, little bard, what’s happening? What do you know that we don’t?”

He sighs. “Shut up,” he hisses through his teeth, and miraculously, he hears three jaws snap shut behind him, blessed silence following closely behind, only broken by his own footsteps and the clanging of swords that aren’t really there in the courtyard.

The walls around him get more and more worn the further he ventures into the west wing, bits of the stones chipped away, windows smashed and doors shattered, dust covering every surface available.

And finally, in the far corner of Kaer Morhen, he finds himself in front of a door. There are slashes in the wood and the wall around it. The hinges are rusted. The lock is not.

Slowly, he slots the key into the lock, turning it around. The lock clicks. The door swings open.

“Jask, what are you doing? That tower’s about to crumble apart-“

“It’s not,” he mutters. “That was a lie Vesemir told you. The tower’s perfectly fine.”

“Then why…” Eskel whispers, and Jaskier doesn’t need to look back to know he’s frowning, brows knitted together in confusion.

“You’ll see.” And with that, he steps foot inside the west tower.

A stairwell rises up on his left, winding round and round a stone pillar, the steps disappearing around the corner. Small windows let in splotches of sunlight, clearly visible in the dust that hangs in the air.

In the small landing at the foot of the stairs, there lay three corpses.

They’ve been dead for a long time, and they’re no more than bones and ragged clothes and a few pitchforks and swords, by now. Jaskier sighs, bending through his knees, laying a tentative hand on a dusty and dry femur, feeling the pumice-like texture beneath his fingertips. He closes his eyes.

_Shouting. Screaming and shouting and these disgusting mutants need to fucking die. They’ve lost too many children to them already, it can’t go on like this._

_Screaming and shouting and the boy who lives three doors down the road – Albert, he believes his name was – lets out a gargling shout as a blade pierces his chest. The boy – he’s barely more than a boy, dear gods, he’s barely more than a boy – crumples to the ground, spewing up blood, eyes wide and frantic before growing empty and glassy._

_The Witcher slashes at more and more of his neighbours, his friends, at_ him, _its – it’s not human, it’s just as much of a monster as the ones it slays – sword makes sparks dance through the air as it hits the stone of the walls. But there’s so many more of them and only one of it, and it’s backed into a corner._

_The only way is up._

_In a moment of fatigue, Herbert doesn’t notice the blade making its way to his neck, and he falls to the ground, feeling his life seep away from him._

_The next time he wakes up, he’s in a snow-covered pass, watching as a Witcher – one of those bloody fucking mutants – makes its way up to the keep, amber eyes hopeful, scars stretching along his cheek as he smiles at the first sight of the keep._

_Gods, Herbert is angry. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to spend any more time in these snow-covered passes, near that fucking Witcher keep. So, he tries to leave. He tries to make his way down the mountain._

_But every time he catches sight of the village tucked between the roots of the stone beast, something pulls him back. Between one step and the next, he’s back where he began._

_He tries and tries and tries. He collapses in the snow. He screams his throat raw. His breath doesn’t fog in the cold winter air. He tries again. He watches as the snow melts and the grass grows and three tired-looking Witchers leave the keep. He tries again. Snow starts to fall and disdain and rage fills him with every second that passes, with every of the three Witchers that makes its way back up to the stone monstrosity on top of the mountain._

_Years pass. He grows angrier._

_He watches as the white-haired Witcher trudges its way up the mountain through the snow. It’s the last one to arrive, this year._

_It’s not alone. There’s a human by its side, huddled up in three cloaks, clear, blue eyes brimming with tears as the harsh winds bite at the sensitive parts of him._

_“Leave!” Herbert shouts at the man. “It’s got you under its spell! Leave, boy!” The human doesn’t hear him._

_Herbert follows the pair up the mountain. Every second, he’s screaming at the man – to go, leave this place and that blasted keep far, far behind him, to not let the Witcher’s impurity sully him – but the man never hears him._

_Then they’re gone. It’s too late for the man, Herbert knows._

_He tries to make his way down the mountain again. Between one step and the next, he finds himself back where he began, and he collapses to the snow-covered ground, screaming out his rage as the stone structure on top of the mountain looks down on him._

_The keep won’t let him leave._

Jaskier gasps, stumbling backwards and falling flat on his back on the dusty floor. Three pairs of strong hands land on his body – his shoulders, his arms, his waist – and pull him up, until he eventually ends up against Geralt’s chest.

“Are you alright, Jask? What happened?”

Gods, he remembers, now. He remembers the way up the mountain, how uncomfortable he’d felt, like he was being watched, like something was seeping all the joy out of his bones. He remembers shaking it off and forgetting about it after finally arriving at the keep, after the feeling finally disappeared.

“I- I saw,” he says softly, voice trembling, on the verge of cracking. “I saw how he died. The keep… the keep has trapped him on the Killer.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Lambert asks behind him incredulously. “The keep can’t do shit. It’s a _keep.”_

_You live on the Path, you die on the Path, you return home, you get to spend as much time here as you want, and if you’re ready to go, then you go._

_Go? Go where?_

_Honestly, little bard? I don’t know. Some used to say you’d become part of the walls of Kaer Morhen_

“I think it’s much more than that,” he whispers, more to himself than to the Witchers, and he pushes away from Geralt’s chest, casting one last glance at the corpses at the foot of the stairs before he starts making his way up.

He runs into four more skeletons as he climbs and climbs and every time, he makes sure to step around them as much as he can, making sure they don’t touch his skin. If he’s right about what he’ll find at the top of the tower, he needs to save his energy.

He finally finds himself in front of a doorway. The hinges are still there, but the door itself has been shattered to bits, pieces of wood strewn across the stairs and the floor of the room that lies beyond.

And it’s there that he sees it. At the top of the highest tower of Kaer Morhen, as pale sunlight shines in through the small windows, dust dancing in the air, he sees it: a corpse in Witcher gear, a wolf’s medallion resting on the breastplate, sword still in skeletal hand, surrounded by a dozen more corpses in disintegrated clothes, holding pitchforks.

He walks forward and he feels the presence of his three wolves behind him as they, too, step into the room.

Geralt’s the first to speak: “I thought we’d cleaned up all the corpses by now.”

“Hmm. But Vesemir told you this tower was about to fall apart, so you didn’t go in here,” Jaskier mutters.

“Why would he lie to us? Why would he hide this body?” It’s Eskel who asks the question.

“I think you know why,” Jaskier whispers, and he takes the last few steps towards the body, falling on his knees on the dusty floor next to it. He stretches his hand out, touches a humerus tentatively, and closes his eyes.

_His brothers are dead._

_His brothers are dead and the echoes of their screams still fill his ears as he stands in front of the door, one sword in his sure and steady hand, the other ready to cast Igni or Aard or Quen. A thunderous boom shakes the door as the peasants slam their bodies into it, trying to get to him._

_He doesn’t know if he’s the last one standing. He doesn’t know if there’s someone else for him to return to if he manages to make it out of here alive._

_There’s Eskel and Geralt and Lambert. They’re still on the Path. He blesses his lucky stars and thanks all the gods that they are._

_Some of the other Witchers have hidden in the crypts with the children. He hopes they’re safe. He doubts it._

_He might be the last Witcher standing in Kaer Morhen. But he’s not going down without a fight._

_The door splinters. He casts Igni and slashes with his sword as the peasants stream into the small room, their makeshift weapons aimed at him._

_He misses a beat when he sees that one of the peasants can’t be older than fourteen, his cheeks still round with youth, eyes still naïve and hopeful and full of a determination that only comes when someone’s not wise enough to question their decisions just yet. He’s barely more than a boy. He’s just a kid._

_He’s just a kid._

_Just a kid._

_A pitchfork pierces his throat. Pulls out with a wet squelch._

_He uses the last of his energy to cast another Igni, and bodies drop to the floor around him. He drops with them._

_He watches with his cheek pressed to the cold stone as the fourteen-year old gasps and chokes, the burnt skin of his neck pulling taut, cutting off his air supply._

_He dies with the kid, and he’s falling falling falling, sinking to the bottom of the abyss like a rock in water, like a convicted man with a sack of bricks tied around his ankle- No. Not like that at all. He sinks like an anchor, falling to the bottom of the world quickly, swiftly, silently, as a sturdy chain connects him to the surface, the air, the light, the living world._

_The chain pulls taut. He stops sinking._

_He hangs there, suspended in black, inky water, and he reaches out, fingertips gently grazing the chain – it’s made of stone, warm and comforting as if it’s been laying out in the sun all day. It feels like home._

_‘Stay,’ something ancient and familiar whispers to him, washing over him and filling his senses. ‘If you want. Stay. Don’t go, little one. You’re safe with me.’_

_‘Okay,’ he whispers to the walls of Kaer Morhen. ‘I’ll stay.’_

_He wakes up in the room at the top of the west tower._

His eyes fly open, muscles shaking as he tries not to collapse, only held up by Geralt’s sure arms around him. The other two wolves are kneeling on the other side of the corpse, Lambert inspecting the old sword it’s holding, Eskel trailing his fingers over the wolf medallion.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks. “Are you alright?”

He takes a trembling breath to steady himself, before nodding. “I’m fine.”

“What happened? Did you see how this one died as well?”

He nods again. “I… I did. I saw what happened afterwards, too. How Kaer Morhen… pulled him back to the surface.”

Eskel frowns at him. “So he’s a ghost now, too?” Jaskier nods. “And can you see where he is right now?”

_Gods, they still haven’t figured it out, have they?_ He sighs softly, though curiosity starts to stir in his chest. He closes his eyes, letting himself go limp, falling against Geralt’s chest as he focuses all his energy on the keep around him. He doesn’t know exactly how he does it, but he supposes it’s like bundling up his mind, taking the edge of it, and casting it out like a fishing net over Kaer Morhen.

_Two Witchers in the courtyard, watching as a dozen trainees try and fail to use their swords correctly. “Gods, even my old nan could do better and she died fifty years ago,” Randy says, and Damien laughs._

_Old Thomasden, perusing the shelves of the library, frowning when he finds one of the books knocked to the floor. He puts it back where it belongs and continues browsing, humming a soft lullaby to himself, one his mother used to sing to him. It’s in a language no one else understands anymore._

_Wulgrim, straightening the edges of the blankets and putting a few more logs on the fire. He can no longer feel if the room is warm or cold, but he supposes that the little bardling won’t freeze to death as long as the fire’s still going. He worries about Jaskier- hopes that the little bard didn’t take his chances and went out into the cold._

_Vesemir, leaning his chin on his hand, keeping an eye on little Elias as the boy plays with some toys in front of the hearth. He remembers the day Elias died clearly- remembers one of the other boys running up to him, frantically tugging at his sleeve and telling him Elias wouldn’t wake up anymore. He remembers burning the boy’s body in the courtyard. Gods, if he’d known the little one was still there… It doesn’t matter. He’s here now. He wonders if his sons know about his demise yet._

He opens his eyes again to find three pairs of amber ones staring at him, wide with worry as he lies on the dusty floor.

“Thank the gods, little bard. We were scared you’d gotten yourself hurt somehow,” Eskel says, laying a warm hand against Jaskier’s clammy forehead.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, though his limbs are weighed down by fatigue. “I was… I was…” He frowns, unsure how to explain. “I was… casting my net out.”

“For ghosts?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier nods. “So did you find him? The person this body belonged to?”

He nods again. “He’s in the kitchen, watching over Elias.”

“Does Vesemir know he’s there?” Eskel asks, and Jaskier sighs deeply, levelling him with a look. “What?”

“Motherfucker,” Lambert hisses, bending over to reach in front of Eskel, clasping the body’s wolf medallion in his hands, eyes spitting fire as he looks at it. “ _Motherfucker.”_

“Care to share with the rest of us?” Eskel deadpans, looking unimpressed.

_“Oh,”_ Geralt breathes above Jaskier, and he shifts to look at his Witcher, who’s staring at the corpse with wide eyes.

“What?” Eskel still doesn’t seem to understand, and Lambert finally tears his eyes away from the body to roll them at his brother.

“It _is_ Vesemir, you fucking dimwit.”

Eskel’s face goes slack, mouth falling open slightly. Jaskier shifts again, sitting up fully, pushing himself onto his knees. He presses a soft kiss to Geralt’s temple as the three Witchers stare at the skeleton, the air in the room so still it’s almost palpable.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” he whispers. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

Geralt nods, turning his head a bit to press the side of it against Jaskier’s forehead. “Thank you,” he whispers back, and Jaskier lifts himself up onto his feet, making his way out of the west tower. As he descends the stairs, there is no other sound but his footsteps- no talking, no yelling, no crying.

There’s just silence.

\---

He finds Vesemir and Elias in the kitchen, just as he saw in his… well, he supposes ‘net’ isn’t exactly the right word, but it’s the best he’s got at the moment.

He crosses the room without a single word, dropping onto his knees beside Elias, pulling the boy into his arms.

“Papa?” his little one whispers, and he only realizes he’s crying when a little hand touches the wet trails on his cheeks. “Papa?”

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, mustering up a smile as he wipes the tears away. “It’s alright, baby. You just keep on playing with your little horsie, okay?”

“Jaskier?” Vesemir whispers on the other side of the kitchen, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know,” he replies softly. “I think they’re still processing things.”

“Hmm.”

They sit there for a couple of minutes, Vesemir staring off into the distance, Jaskier holding his little boy, rocking them back and forth gently, until Elias grows bored of the wooden horse.

“Papa? Can you do the itsy bitsy spider again?”

He smiles, pulling back to look at his little one, brushing a few wayward curls out of his face. “Of course, baby.”

\---

He doesn’t look up when the door to the kitchen opens and closes again softly – just keeps his eyes trained on little Elias, who’s playing with his toys again, softly muttering ‘itsy bitsy spider’ under his breath. It’s the only sound that breaks the silence in the room.

“Geralt. Eskel,” Vesemir says behind him. “Where…”

“Lambert’s punching a hole into a tree outside,” Eskel says, voice calm and resigned, as if he’s incredibly tired. A chair scrapes over the stone floor, quickly followed by another.

The quiet stretches on, thick and sour like curdled milk, dense and dangerous like a foglet-infested mist. Everything depends on the words spoken next.

“Why?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier counts four heartbeats before Vesemir speaks. “I… I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You could’ve let us into the west tower. Could’ve let us find your body,” Eskel mutters. Jaskier twirls one of Elias’ curls around his finger to distract himself. It doesn’t work.

“I know.” Vesemir sounds tired, weary, but relieved as well.

“Might’ve saved us a lot of hurt if you’d just told us in the beginning.”

“Might’ve,” the older wolf whispers. “Might’ve not. I was faced with a choice that day, and I made it. I must bear the consequences now.”

The door to the kitchen opens and closes again. Silence stretches on.

“You know,” Lambert begins, uncharacteristically quietly, “I haven’t wanted to hug you in years. But the second that I find out I can’t touch you anymore, I _do_ want to. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“You can. It takes a lot of my energy to make myself solid, but… you can. Hug me, that is. If you want to.”

One heartbeat passes, before Jaskier hears the quiet _thud_ of two bodies connecting.

“Fuck you,” Lambert whispers. “For doing this to us. And… I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know you are. And I’m sorry, too,” Vesemir whispers back. “Jaskier?” He turns around at the sound of his own name, meeting amber eyes. “Thank you. For telling them what I could not.”

He nods once.

“So now what?” It’s Eskel that asks the question.

“I’ll stay,” the oldest wolf says. “For as long as you need to.”

“And then?”

“I’ll Fade. I’ll leave for good. Find my peace within the walls of Kaer Morhen.”

“I’ll stay too,” Jaskier says, pulling Elias into his lap. “I… I can’t leave him behind. And… I don’t _want_ to leave. Despite everything, this place has become my home. I’m too tired to walk the Path anyways; it’s for the best.”

“Then I’ll stay too,” Geralt says, amber eyes fixed on Jaskier and Elias.

“You can’t, Geralt,” Vesemir interrupts him. “The Path needs you- _the people out there_ need you. Return come the winter, but remember to leave come the spring, lest you rust into place.”

Geralt continues to stare at them a little longer, hurt flashing through his eyes, but eventually, he nods. “I’ll come back. I’ll always come back to you, Jask,” he says softly.

“I know. I know you will,” Jaskier replies.

And it’s true- he knows Geralt will always come back to him, someway, somehow. In the blink of an eye, his entire world shifts, his future suddenly clear in front of him, as if he’s just turned a corner to find the mountains around him have crumbled away into a wide, open field, his Path stretching out ahead.

He will stay. He will stay and look after Elias as he sets himself to the impossible task of reading all the books in the library. He will discuss sixth-century Elvish poetry with old Master Thomasden. He will make small-talk with Wulgrim and listen to the stories from his Path. He will joke and laugh at the trainees’ bumbling with Randy and Damien in the courtyard. He will drink tea with Vesemir. He will explore every last bit of this ancient keep. He will await Geralt’s return.

He will grow old. The ache in his joints will get worse by the day and by the season. His sinews will stiffen. His voice will grow rough. His fingers will grow numb and clumsy. His hair will grey and his skin will wrinkle and fold.

He will fall asleep in Geralt’s arms. He will wake up without pain and leave his body behind. He will be able to play the lute again.

One winter, they’ll say goodbye to Vesemir, and the old wolf will Fade into the walls.

One by one, his Witchers will join him. Their feet won’t leave imprints in the layer of dust that grows thicker and thicker with each passing year. Yennefer and Ciri will visit a few times, but won’t stay longer than a season. They won’t join them. Their homes lie elsewhere.

Seasons will change, years will pass. One by one, the older ghosts will Fade into the walls. One day, Elias will understand, and he, too, will Fade and leave Jaskier’s arms for the last time. It will just be the four of them.

Only three will remain when Lambert Fades – the first of them to go. He’s never been one to stay in one place for too long; death won’t change that in him. Eskel will be the one to leave after that.

It will be just Geralt and Jaskier, then. They’ll face the ages of the world together as seasons, years, centuries pass. Winter becomes summer becomes winter. The keep won’t remain forever. Nothing will. No one will.

With time, they’ll Fade into the stones, side by side.

And when the walls of Kaer Morhen come crumbling down after standing tall and proud on top of the mountain for eons, they’ll crumble with them as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan!
> 
> I just wanna say thank you for all the likes and comments on this fic! I really didn't expect it to do so well - it was just a little piece I wrote for myself, to get the idea out of my head - and your support really means a lot to me.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr! @king-finnigan.  
> And once again, please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!


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